I live simply in the backcountry of Ranchita, California, off-grid and in rhythm with the land. My days revolve around the weather, the sunrises and sunsets, and the daily care of my herd. At dawn, I rise to feed the horses—again at noon, and again before dusk. They live together, choosing their relationships, slowly harmonizing as only a real herd can when given the space to be themselves. I see us all as a herd—me, the horses, my two dogs, and my cat.
Lil Bear softens new arrivals with his sweet, disarming presence. Summer, big and boisterous, guards the land and alerts us to rattlesnakes and strangers. And the cat—she is an extraordinary huntress, silently maintaining balance by controlling the rodent population. She lives her full feline nature here, wild by day, and comes inside at night to stay safe from coyotes, bobcats, and mountain lions.
The land is quiet. The stars are visible. The energy is strong and private. It shapes everything I do.
And yet—this blog is being co-written with AI.
AI tools like ChatGPT are rapidly reshaping the landscape of mental health and self-inquiry. They're accessible, often free, and available around the clock. For people who don’t have access to traditional therapy—whether due to cost, location, stigma, or timing—AI has become a quiet companion. It listens. It reflects. It even offers comfort.
Some of my own clients have shared how they use AI in between our sessions. They ask it to help them process emotions, explore family dynamics, or sort through inner conflicts that surface after a constellation. It doesn’t replace our work—but it gives them a way to keep the conversation going when they’re alone.
For some, AI offers a kind of neutrality that feels safer than human input. A friend of mine listens to it more than she listens to her therapist, or even the people close to her—despite them all offering similar reflections. Something about the lack of emotion, judgment, or attachment allows her to receive the message more clearly. It may not replace human presence, but for certain people, in certain moments, it offers exactly the kind of support they’re able to take in.
AI can simulate a lot. It can respond with empathy, reflect back emotions, even offer surprisingly accurate insights. But it doesn’t have a body. It doesn’t breathe. It doesn’t stand with you in the corral while your nervous system slowly regulates in the presence of a horse.
It doesn’t respond to the subtle shifts in your posture, the tremble in your hand, or the look in your eyes when something lands. It doesn’t wait in silence while the wind moves through and the ground itself seems to witness your truth.
AI can’t feel the energy of a session. It doesn’t co-regulate. It doesn’t respond to the shifting charge in the informational field when something hidden is revealed.
The horses do. The land does. Even in the dry, dusty, often windy conditions of Southern California, the environment is alive with feedback. The corral becomes a space of attunement. The horses adjust, the dogs lie still or stir. The energy shifts.
And perhaps most important of all—the client’s body receives it. Breath deepens. Tears surface. Something releases. The body becomes part of the constellation, a receptor within the wider system, mirroring the truth of what’s emerging.
No algorithm can replicate that.
There’s talk already that traditional talk therapy may be headed for obsolescence. Not because it’s unhelpful—but because AI is fast, available, and increasingly capable of mimicking therapeutic conversation. For someone isolated or overwhelmed, it’s easier to type into a chat box than to find, afford, and open up to a licensed therapist.
That doesn’t mean all therapy will vanish. But the model of sitting across from a human, trying to explain yourself, might begin to fade—especially for those who find more safety in the anonymity and neutrality of AI.
What won’t go obsolete, though, is relationship. Presence. The living field.
Horse Constellation work doesn’t require you to explain yourself. You don’t need to convince anyone of your pain. The horses, the land, and the field respond to what is, not what is said. And that kind of healing—direct, embodied, witnessed—can’t be synthesized.
As AI grows more prevalent, something else emerges: a deepening awareness of what’s missing. The more time people spend in virtual space, the more they feel the absence of nature, energy, and real connection. The nervous system doesn’t lie. And it can’t be regulated by code.
This shift may actually benefit my work. As people search for what feels real, healing spaces that include animals, earth, and ancestral presence will become not just important—but essential.
The truth is, I use AI. I didn’t always. At first, I had resistance. The idea of machines thinking for us felt hollow—cold, even. I didn’t trust it.
But over time, I realized something: I do everything myself. I run my website, shoot and edit videos, write books, respond to clients, feed the horses, manage the land. There’s no team behind Silver Horse. It’s just me.
And AI? It started helping. Quietly, steadily, in all the places I’d struggled. Grammar, organization, copywriting—things I was never trained in. It didn’t take over. It assisted. It became a tool I could shape to fit my voice, my message, my needs.
It’s revolutionary. And it’s accessible. I’m no longer paying others to do what I can now co-create with a machine.
But there are limits.
AI doesn’t know what it feels like when a horse sighs in your presence, or drops their head to the ground, signaling trust and safety. It doesn’t respond to the subtle shifts in the field. It doesn’t feel resonance. It doesn’t carry the energy of the land in its chest. It doesn’t know truth by vibration. I do. The horses do. The field does.
So I’ve come to see it this way: AI can support the work. It can help me reach more people. But it will never be the work.
The future may include both. But if we forget our bodies, our breath, and our wildness, we’ll lose more than we gain. The invitation, perhaps, is to use the tools of this new world to lead us back to the ones we’ve always had: the animals, the land, the field, and each other.
We are living through a shift, and no one knows exactly where it’s headed. Technology is moving fast. Healing is a process. Some of us are adapting. Some of us are resisting. Most of us are doing both.
I don’t believe we need to choose one or the other. But I do believe we need to stay connected to what’s real.
Let the tools help where they can. But don’t forget the smell of horses. The way your body meets the earth. The movement of your breath. The nervous system doesn’t lie. And these things—connection, presence, trust—they can’t be downloaded.
If you’ve been relying on AI for support, I understand. And if you’re curious about what healing looks like when it includes horses, land, breath, and silence—you’re welcome here.
Come see what the field has to say.