Lauren Reischer is a professional rider born with cerebral palsy and is based out of New York. She transitioned from being a therapeutic riding student to competing on the hunter/jumper circuit at the age of 25 and is using her platform to educate the public about riders with disabilities.
Riding has always been a centerpiece of my life. I was introduced to riding at a mere three years old at GallopNYC, New York City's premier therapeutic riding program, at the recommendation of my doctors to treat my Cerebral Palsy. From the very beginning, it was clear that therapeutic riding gave me more than just improved mobility. Riding gave me freedom. In the saddle, I wasn't defined by the tightness in my muscles or my asynchronous gait. I was just a little girl on a horse, moving with him, together as one being.
I didn't know it then, but I was feeling more than just freedom—I was feeling a sense of equality and autonomy that I never knew on the ground. That sense of agency, independence, and partnership is what made me fall in love with the sport. It’s also what continues to drive me today as a professional hunter rider.
Now, more than 20 years down the road, I have never forgotten that riding is a privilege—an immense one. Horses, tack, boarding, lessons, show fees—they add up, I get it. For anyone, equestrian sports can feel like an ever-growing financial mountain. Add a disability into the mix, and the challenges multiply. Barns and showgrounds tend not to be very accessible. Trainers who fundamentally understand adaptive needs are hard to come by; many still assume that riders with disabilities belong only in therapy programs, not in the show ring.
The reality is that many riders with disabilities don’t get the opportunity to progress to where their abilities could take them—not because of a lack of talent or drive, but because of barriers like stigma, transportation, adaptive equipment, compatible horses, and more. That’s why, no matter where I go in this sport, I carry both gratitude and a responsibility to advocate for opportunities for others. For me, it's not enough to say, "I made it." I want to make sure others can say, "We're here, together."
Part of that responsibility means challenging how we define success in this sport, and who we believe gets to participate. On the hunter/jumper side, one of the most persistent and harmful ideas is that progress is linear: you start in walk-trot, move up through the levels, and eventually end up at rated shows jumping 3'6" on a six-figure horse. But for most people—especially for disabled riders (myself included)—progress doesn't look like that. And more importantly, it doesn’t have to.
Some of my most meaningful experiences in the saddle haven’t come from winning ribbons, but from connecting with horses that others might have passed over—horses that were too old, too slow, or simply didn't pass a pre-purchase exam. The "serviceably sound" horses—who, ironically, some might say, have "disabilities" of their own—have played a bigger role in shaping the rider I am today than anything else. They weren't always flashy, but they were gold.
And in a sport where flawless conformation often steals the spotlight, its worth remembering: the experiences of horses with "disabilities" have just as much value as those who fit the mold of perfection. Their soundness limitations didn’t make them less worthy; they made me think critically about how the soundness of my own body, like theirs, could be manipulated and rehabilitated to move more smoothly. These horses taught me to be not just patient with my progress, but creative with how I achieve my goals.
It's so easy to get caught up in the comparison trap. We scroll through social media and see people jumping higher, showing more, or adding new horses to their string, and wonder where we stand in comparison. But everyone's path in this sport is unique—and trying to copy someone else's is like trying to ride in their saddle: it probably won't fit, and you'll end up frustrated and discouraged.
One of the hardest, but most rewarding, lessons I've learned is to put on the blinders and focus on my own progress. And the truth is, for me, progress is unlikely to come from a 3'6" hack-winning packer with a round jump (even though that's the horse we’re all conditioned to want). It’s more likely to come from a 20-year-old horse with a paddling trot and a flat jump, thanks to a decade-old suspensory injury, who still has enough heart and engine to help me build my confidence at two feet.
And you know what?
I’ll wear an ear-to-ear grin, taking home seventh place on that horse. Just like the girl in my under saddle class who takes the blue on her chromey import. AND I'll truly be happy for her!!! Because she, too, deserves to love the horse she has. She, too, deserves freedom from judgment for the horse carrying her through this chapter of her journey—just like I do.
I remind myself often that there is no deadline to reach a certain level. If I'm riding well, improving my communication with my horse, and finding joy and fulfillment in the process, then I'm exactly where I need to be. Yes, being judged is a very literal part of the sport—but we must remember that the judges are only evaluating how well you're riding today, not how well you'd ride if you had that horse, or with this many more years of experience.
That mindset shift doesn’t happen overnight, but it has changed everything. I'm no longer just a rider with Cerebral Palsy trying to keep up—I'm a horsewoman in my own right, carving out a path that is responsive to my body and my values. It has forced me to be creative in the saddle, to be flexible with my circumstances, and to communicate clearly with my horses and my trainers. Having CP has made me a better rider, not a lesser one.
And that's the message I want every disabled equestrian to hear: You belong here. Your goals are valid. Your presence matters. And your pride is powerful.
To everyone who shares a love for this sport—whether you're able-bodied or have a disability—I invite you to look around the ring with more compassion and less comparison. Instead of measuring your journey against someone else's, ask how you can help make space for others to thrive alongside you. Remember that barriers exist for everyone in the sport, and it's on all of us to break them down. Remember to celebrate the horse you have, even if it's not the one you dreamed of, because every horse has value, and owning a horse in itself is a privilege. And finally, appreciate the riders who take longer to learn a skill, who adapt their technique, and who show up again and again, not because they can or because it's easy, but because they love it!
