Phase Two

Rehabilitation isn’t glamorous. It’s slow, repetitive, filled with tiny triumphs and frequent backslides. With Lumen, it started with just being there—quiet, consistent, and gentle. For days, I didn’t try to touch her, unless I absolutely had to. I just sat nearby while she picked at her hay cubes, reading aloud or humming under my breath. She didn’t always look at me, but I knew she was listening.

We started slow. Soaks for her hooves, gentle medicated scrubs for her sores, a careful refeeding plan—alfalfa, hay cubes, soaked beet pulp, weight builder, etc.. all split into small meals. She was suspicious of everything at first, especially hands. Even with gloves and soft voices, she’d freeze when approached. A brush was a monster; a fly spray bottle, an apocalypse.

The halter training came next. Or, more truthfully, halter re-training. She’d clearly known pressure before—but harsh, unforgiving pressure. I never clipped a rope to her without purpose, never pulled, never punished hesitation. I let her learn that pressure didn’t mean pain. That a human hand could offer relief, not control. 

Our first goal was simple: let her lift a front hoof without yanking away. It took six sessions. Six whole days of standing quietly beside her, stroking her shoulder, sliding a hand down her leg, and waiting. She’d tremble, brace, then eventually allow me to hold it for a second. The day she let me clean out the hoof without pulling away, I cried into her dusty mane.

Progress isn’t linear. Some days she’d greet me with a soft nicker, eyes brighter. Other days, she’d stand pressed against the far fence line, as if I were a storm rolling in. The worst moments came when something startled her—someone dropping a bucket, a gate slamming shut. She’d bolt backward, eyes wild, crashing into corners like the barn might eat her alive.

I started taking her out to hand-graze near the quiet woods at the back of the property. There, she seemed to breathe easier. She’d chew slowly, ears flicking, sometimes watching squirrels dart through the trees. Once, she reached out and nudged my elbow. Just a tap. I didn’t move. But my heart did.

Lumen still startles at the world. Her body still tells the story of being used and discarded. But there’s a softness now—faint, fragile—in her expression when she sees me. Her coat is shinier, the sores scabbing over, her ribs less stark beneath her growing strength. The thrush is finally clearing up, though we’re not out of the woods yet.

Not long ago, I found her dozing in the sun, head lowered, lip drooping, completely relaxed. When I approached, she didn’t flinch. She opened one eye and watched me like she was thinking.

“Hi, Lumen,” I whispered.

She didn’t move.

She didn’t run.

And in that stillness, I felt it—that tiny, stubborn flicker of trust.

The goal? Healing. Not just physically, but wholly. She may never be ridden, may never trust everyone, but if she can feel safe—truly safe—then that’s enough.

One breath at a time. One step at a time.

We’ll get there.