My mother has Progressive Supranuclear Palsy—PSP.
If you’ve never heard of it, that makes sense. I hadn’t either. Not until it showed up in our lives and started rearranging everything without asking permission. PSP is a rare neurological disease. It affects balance, movement, speech, swallowing—eventually independence. There’s no cure. It doesn’t hurry, but it doesn’t stop either. Experiencing PSP firsthand changes everything.
And while the diagnosis belongs to one person, the impact spreads outward. PSP weaves into the lives of the people who love them. Quietly. Constantly.
Caregiving, worry, the kind of grief that starts before anything is officially gone—it all piles up. Time starts to feel smaller. Your brain runs on two tracks at once: what’s happening right now and the low, steady fear of what’s coming next. Some mornings feel heavy before you even get out of bed, especially when living with PSP.
For a while, I thought the responsible thing—the adult thing—was to sell my
Life felt too full. Time felt too tight. Riding, something that once felt like part of who I was, started to feel indulgent. Optional. I told myself letting it go was practical. Sensible. Mature—even in the shadow of PSP.
So I listed him.
And then… nothing happened.
He didn’t sell. Not for lack of trying. He just stayed, unchanged even as PSP shaped our days.
Since he didn’t sell, I moved Tino to a friend’s place—and I will never stop being thankful for that. No pressure. No show schedule. No expectations. Just room to breathe, a welcome relief when navigating the realities of PSP.
Somewhere in the middle of one of the hardest chapters of my life, riding found its way back to me. Not as a goal. Not as a plan. But as an escape, especially from the daily struggles that PSP brings.
Now I ride him out in the hills. No arena. No mirrors. Just the rhythm of his stride, the wind moving through sagebrush, the kind of quiet you only get when your phone is far away and your hands are on the reins. Out there, my mind finally loosens its grip, even when PSP is never far from my thoughts.
For an hour, I’m not coordinating appointments or bracing myself for the next hard update. I’m just riding. Breathing. Remembering what it feels like to be inside my own body instead of stuck in my head. In that space, PSP fades into the background.
I am endlessly grateful I didn’t sell him, especially since having a companion brings comfort amid the difficulties of PSP.
Because sometimes the thing you think you need to give up is the very thing that carries you through, especially in times shaped by PSP.
I don’t believe it was an accident that he stayed. I’ve learned that God works in mysterious ways—often quietly, often through the things we almost let go of, even as PSP makes life unpredictable.
PSP has taken so much from my mother, and from all of us who love her. But somehow, along the way, it’s also taught me something I didn’t expect: it’s okay to hold onto the things that steady you. Joy doesn’t have to be earned. And escape—when it’s healthy—isn’t avoidance.
It’s survival, especially for families living with PSP.
Out in the hills with Tino, I find just enough peace to keep going, which is invaluable during our journey with PSP.
And right now, that is everything, even in a world altered by PSP.
Has your life been affected by PSP? If you feel comfortable, I invite you to share your story in the comments below. I would truly love to hear about your journey—so we can support, understand, and hold space for one another.
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