You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink.

My mom always said, “You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink.” It usually came out when I was full steam ahead on a terrible idea. Like the time I decided I needed a belly button piercing. My friend had one and it looked good on her, so naturally I wanted one too. I brought it up to my mom, and instead of fighting me on it, she just said, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Which, let’s be honest, made me want it even more.

The piercing lasted exactly one week. It was crooked, sore, and so badly done that I couldn’t even pretend it looked good. I was mortified. I didn’t want to admit it, but I knew I had messed up. And when I couldn’t take it anymore, I asked my mom, the same one who warned me not to do it, to take me back to the shop to get it removed. She just nodded, grabbed her keys, and came with me. No lecture. No told-you-so. Just quiet support.

That saying hit differently after that. It’s not really about horses or water, it’s about the limits of advice. People can love you, guide you, even warn you, but they can’t force you to be ready for the lesson. I wasn’t ready. I had to see it for myself. And my mom? She understood that. She gave me the space to make the mistake but stayed close enough to help me through the regret. That’s what I didn’t see then: wisdom doesn’t always come in the form of rules. Sometimes, it comes in the form of a ride to the piercing shop, twice.