Previously, Lauren shared the physical struggles of a rider with disabilities. In this post, she is sharing the mental struggles for someone who rides with disabilities. If you missed the first half, read it now: Riding with a Disability: The Invisible Adaptations Behind Every Ride
At times, I have felt really guilty about not being able to do it all on my own or for being a burden on someone else. But the more time I’ve spent learning to understand and accept my own circumstances, I’ve begun to see more clearly that the extra time it takes me to get ready, or the added help that I need to care for my own horse … those aren't inefficiencies. It's awareness. It's noticing details about my own body, and how my horses position themselves around me. To a point that most riders never have to think about.
And then of course, there's the mental load. In a judged discipline like the hunters, I have to be aware that my body moves differently, and that not every judge will understand what they're seeing. Truthfully, sometimes I get stuck in the dual consciousness of riding for myself, while also knowing that I’m representing something larger. I go into the ring knowing that my ride might be someone’s first impression of what disabilities look like in this sport—and I want it to be defined by precision and harmony, not pity or novelty. And yet, I also ride knowing that the level of riding I am pursuing today would be unfathomable to 4-year-old Lauren. I ride knowing that simply showing up to the ring to compete means the world to kids like Colton, a 10-year-old boy with cerebral palsy living in Kentucky who told me he wants to ride like me someday.
All of that work—the physical calibration, the technical adaptations, the mental resilience—exists beneath the surface of what others may perceive as "just riding." At times, when I have a flat ride that rides like butter or manage to make it all the way through a course of small jumps, I get to experience those moments where it really does feel like I’m just riding. If you strip away the disability and the labels of "can" and "can't", you'll find that every rider out there adapts; some of us are just more deliberate about it.
So much of the best riding we see, whether it’s Maclay Finals or a Nations Cup, comes down to the smallest adjustments: a half-halt placed a beat sooner, or a rein softened a breath later. My adaptations are exactly the same; they are just more visible (and sometimes, exaggerated) examples of what every good rider already does—listen, respond and refine. The labor that goes into adapting my riding isn't an asterisk to mastery. It is mastery.
Because every time I recalibrate what my body can't do, I am left to deepen my connection to my horse to find harmony. And that, to me, is the centerpiece of being a horsewoman and rider.
And that harmony doesn't just fall into anyone's lap—myself included. Even with all the help and assistance I have at the barn, I had to learn (sometimes the hard way) that despite what social media may lead us to believe, it's pretty unlikely that anyone is going to hand you a bridle and say, “Here, this one's yours." It is your responsibility to take the reins on your own riding career.
"If you strip away the disability and the labels of 'can' and 'can't, you’ll find that every rider out there adapts; some of us are just more deliberate about it."
For a long time, I think I waited around hoping that someone would see my potential, see how badly I wanted it, and just give me the ride, or the chance to do more and to prove myself. And when you're a disabled rider, a lot of people are hesitant to give you a chance, or they don’t know how to. Disability or not, in our sport it's so easy to feel like you're on the outside looking in, waiting for the right horse, the right trainer, the right resources or the right timing to make everything click. Once I stopped waiting for permission to belong, everything changed. I asked questions. I made my own adaptations when it seemed like no one else had the answers. And slowly, the thing I thought made me different actually became the thing that made me capable. Being forced to adapt each and every day taught me to create opportunity out of limitation.
This is what it takes to ride with a disability.
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.
Lauren has written three total blog posts for Tough1, including this one.
