Who Am I, And Where’s My Dog?

Who am I?

My name is Meagan. By day, I’m a Communications Specialist; by night, a freelance editor. I love cats, dogs, and other cute, fluffy creatures. I’m a bookworm. I love music. I hate waking up early and I hate bugs. I love playing the piano (I’m not very good at it) and correcting other people’s grammar (which they actually pay me to do). I’m a mercurial introvert with a ton of excellent friends who love me anyway, and a wonderful partner who somehow manages to put up with my quirks. I procrastinate like all good writers should; I struggle with insecurities and jealousy and bouts of irrationality; I really, really love chocolate. In other words, I’m pretty normal. … Oh yeah, and I’ve been blind from birth.

You might be thinking, “Wait, what’s that you said about being pretty normal?”

Unless you hang around with blind people a lot, (and if you do, then good for you, we’re a lot of fun), you probably can’t help thinking that there’s a certain otherness that characterizes people with noticeable disabilities like blindness.  In some ways that’s true. We definitely lead altered lives. We walk around with long white sticks (or maddeningly cute doggies you’re not allowed to pet), and we bump into stuff. We also tend to possess a lot of things that talk.

That said, we’re just like you. We have the same fears, hopes, aspirations, and ambitions that “normal” people do. We go to college, and work, and have kids, and play sports, and keep house, and hang out with friends, and do all that “normal” stuff.

So, you may ask, and with good reason, “If you’re exactly the same as everyone else, why write a blog about blindness?” For too many years, I believed I had to play up the “normal” bits of myself to the point where I was practically in denial when it came to my disability. I believed that a “good blind person” had to behave as though the blindness was practically nonexistent. If it did exist, it was no inconvenience at all. No big deal, I can function just like everybody else, maybe better. I am capable blind gal, hear me roar!

While it is very healthy not to centre your life around blindness, it’s equally healthy to acknowledge that blindness is really damn annoying sometimes. It’s inconvenient. It makes life harder. It’s not some divine gift that makes me a better person or whatever it is we tell ourselves these days. Yes, I deal with it, and no, it’s not a constant stumbling block, but yeah…it’s really, really inconvenient sometimes. I routinely deal with questions like “Where’s your dog? You should have a dog!” and “How many fingers am I holding up?” and my personal favourite, “How can you possibly have a life? How can you be happy?”

Sometimes I run into doorways and walls and cabinet doors with frightening force. If you see me with a black eye, it was an inanimate object, not my boyfriend, promise. Sometimes I drop things and then crawl around for a dog’s age trying to find them. Sometimes I miss spots when I clean my house. Sometimes I accidentally throw whites in with my coloured laundry. These are the minor things.

Sometimes, it’s really tough to get hired because nobody believes I can work. Sometimes, people treat me like I’m invisible or inhuman, because they perceive me to be fundamentally different and, by extension, inferior. Sometimes, people talk about me like I’m not there. Sometimes, people complain because I’m “a drain on the system”. Sometimes, I feel desperately lonely and misunderstood. Sometimes, I really, really hate being blind. This ain’t a picnic in the sun…sometimes.

Mostly, though, I’m pretty normal, like I said. I’m writing this blog because if I can make one person understand what my life is like, then I’ve succeeded. If I can make one person realize that we’re not so different, inferior, invisible, then my time hasn’t been wasted. I don’t speak for all blind people, but I do know how they often feel, whether they’ll admit it or not.

If you’re still with me, stick around. Who knows? You might learn something; and if you don’t learn anything, I might at least make you laugh.

But wait–where’s my dog?

I don’t have one, … and that’s okay.

Staying Sane In A Culture Of Outrage

Unless you’ve been living off the grid for the past year or so (and if you have, congratulations, you’re not really missing much), you’ve been inundated with rage-fuel from just about every imaginable quarter, at least on the internet. The tumultuous American election, the unrest in Europe, the conflicts in the Middle East—these have all snowballed to create feelings of despair and near-constant outrage. Sustaining these feelings for any length of time is mentally taxing, and I’ve seen this struggle in the disability community and, of course, in myself.
Shouldering my personal mental health issues has spurred me to devise strategies for staying sane in these troubled times. While everyone on and offline will have, I hope, found their own effective coping mechanisms, I thought it might be prudent to share some of my own. My goal is to help others, including those without disabilities, safeguard their sanity while continuing to be present online. It’s all very well to fight on the front lines, but we must remember to look after our well-being, no matter how guilty it makes us feel to do so. We’re no good to anyone or anything unless we care for ourselves, first and foremost.

Learn to Sit Down

If you’ve spoken about any issue on the internet, you’ve probably been told to “sit the f**k down” a time or two. It can be discouraging when people demand your silence, particularly if they claim to speak for and represent you, but they have a point.
One of the first things I had to accept when I worried for my mental health was that sometimes, I had to put down my torch and acknowledge that not every battle is mine to fight. I cannot possibly join every crusade, champion every cause, or address every issue, in the disability community and elsewhere. I’ve found that sticking to the conflicts that affect me most directly is the best way to ensure that my voice is heard and my views are based on accurate information and experience. There is no point getting involved in a dispute I know nothing about, and once I recognized this, my life got a whole lot calmer.
In addition to preserving my sanity, this tactic meant I didn’t inadvertently misrepresent or harm anyone else, whose opinions are much more valid than my own. What right have I to speak on behalf of those with autism? Wheelchair users? Those who are deaf and hard of hearing? None whatsoever, I’d say. I’m free to discuss their general rights as disabled human beings, but my personal experience is totally irrelevant in most cases. I’d be annoyed if someone with little or no experience with visual impairment presumed to override my needs, and I imagine others in the community feel the same way.
So, learn to sit down once in a while. It’s worth it, I promise.

Know your limits

The next thing I learned was that my capacity for absorbing rage-fuel is finite. You may have discovered the same. While some of us grow numb to it all, developing armour and forging ahead, others of us need mental health breaks. Stepping away from social media can be therapeutic in the extreme. More than once over the past year, I’ve had to unplug temporarily, just so I could function normally and live my offline life.
Here are some signs to watch for if you think you might need some time away:
• Your heart races at the very thought of reading yet another inflammatory article or Facebook post, but you can’t seem to stop clicking on them.
• You find yourself jumping into strangers’ conversations at the smallest offence, determined to set them straight.
• You pick fights with friends who disagree with you, despite the fact that it achieves little and only ends in resentment or awkwardness.
• You find yourself under constant stress, especially when surfing the web.
• You’re losing sleep over the opinions of strangers, even when those strangers are ill-informed and unworthy of your time or energy.
• You’re unable to concentrate on your job, your relationships, and other infinitely more important parts of your life.
If you’re encountering any of these issues, back away, at least for a few days. Your energy is precious, and if you’re anything like me, you can’t afford to waste spoons on fruitless anger. I can just about guarantee you’ll return to the fray feeling more tranquil, and the energy you do expend on the things you care about will yield better results. Try it.

Be Open to Changing Your Mind

Personal growth is underrated in this polarized landscape. If you’re on the left, you’re expected to stay there under all circumstances. If you’re on the right, the same is expected of you. No matter where you fall on the spectrum, people demand that you pick a side and remain there. Nuance is so often abandoned in favour of toeing the party line, and this can be enormously stressful.
Remember that your principles, while they’re admirable, are allowed to evolve over time. If you receive new information that proves you’re wrong about something, be at peace with changing your perspective and your position. You may consider some beliefs to be inviolate, I know I do, but flexibility is its own reward. Keeping your mind open—but not too open, you don’t want to be swayed by every breeze—is vital to your growth and development. My own views have shifted over the years, which is reflected in my blog, but I’m not ashamed of it. All it means is that I’m capable of adapting to what life teaches me.
If communities as a whole, and individuals in particular, are totally closed to change, they won’t survive for long.
Don’t let anyone accuse you of betrayal or flip-flopping. Adjusting your beliefs and values according to new information you gather is normal and healthy. Don’t let anyone convince you otherwise.

You Owe Nothing to Anyone

Finally, keep this close to your heart: you do not owe anyone anything. You are not duty-bound to educate. No one should try to force you to act on any given cause. Respecting your limits and beliefs should be your highest priority. It’s worthwhile to advocate, and I prefer that people choose the path to education if they insist that nondisabled people behave properly around them, but you should never feel as though you have to treat every situation as a teachable moment. If you try, you’ll find yourself exhausted and frustrated. You might even snap one day and bite some innocent person’s head off. This has happened to me, and I recognized it as a signal that I could not be a perfect educator at all times. On days when I just don’t have it in me, I need to go about my business and forget about perceived duties to my community.
Furthermore, you don’t owe anyone a debate or an explanation. If someone seeks an argument with you, by all means engage them, but end the conversation once you’ve had enough. There are many resources out there. Point them toward those and withdraw before you become unduly upset. Let no one tell you what you owe them.


I hope these tips will help you. If you can, please pass them along to anyone you know who might be staggering under the weight of all they are reading and sharing. Tempting as it may be to steep ourselves in this culture of outrage, we must learn to practice self-care and cultivate self-awareness. Only then can we find balance.
Good luck in all your noble endeavours. Do me one favour though, and rest now and again.

Helping A Blind Person 101: Ask First, And No Means No

The world is filled with helpful people, and as a disabled person, I encounter many of them. There are plenty of apathetic people to whom I’m mostly invisible, but more often than not, I meet genuinely kind people who want to make my life easier.
The downside of this desire to be helpful is that not everyone knows how to go about it. All the good intentions in the world won’t make up for assistance that puts us in danger or hinders our progress. It may sound ungrateful or presumptuous to dictate how people should help us, but a guide to offering unsolicited assistance is past due. It’s all very well for us to rant about the inadequate and unwanted assistance we receive, but if we don’t advise people on the best way to aid us, we’ll never get anywhere.
Now, this is your regular reminder that I do not speak for all disabled people. I don’t even speak for all blind people. While I listen to the complaints, recommendations, and rants of other blind people quite attentively, I don’t pretend to be an expert in all situations. The best I can do is cover the basics. So, here goes.

Ask First, always.

The issue I run into more than any other is people’s assumption that we live in a constant state of helplessness. They compensate for this by shouting instructions, touching us suddenly and without permission, or insisting that we must be lost, even when we reassure them that we’re doing just fine, thanks very much.
I really can’t overstate this: asking before offering help is not optional unless—and you must be very sure of this first—we are putting ourselves at risk of serious injury. If we’re walking straight into oncoming traffic or poised to walk off a cliff, I’d say that’s a good time to step in. These exceptions are very rare, however.
Asking for permission is the most essential part of being truly helpful, because you’ll find that most of the time we’re capable, competent travellers who know exactly where we are and where we’re going. Don’t panic if we veer a little while crossing the street, or backtrack when we walk past a door we’re searching for. Given time, we can usually straighten ourselves out. Deep concentration is at the root of problem-solving, so distracting us without being sure we are struggling is more of a hindrance than a help. Besides, asking before grabbing or steering someone is a tenet of common courtesy, don’t you think?

No means no.

Unless we are headed for the afore-mentioned life-threatening situations, it’s imperative that you listen to us and respect our wishes. If you offer help and we say we don’t need it, don’t be offended, and definitely don’t push. We’re not turning your offer down out of meanness or spite or ingratitude. We’re turning it down because we simply don’t need it, and help we don’t need slows us down and gets in our way, especially if you’re not skilled at giving directions or guiding a blind person. Chances are, if we’re saying “Thanks, but no thanks,” we mean it. Please respect that.
It’s worth noting that, if you bypass our wishes and grab or touch us without our consent, you’re treading on dangerous ground. It’s never acceptable to violate someone’s personal space, especially when they’ve made it clear that doing so is unwelcome. Here I must return to the rudimentary rules of politeness: no means no.

Be open to guidance.

Despite your level of confidence, make sure you’re open to suggestions. If a blind person agrees to let you help them, and you grab their hand, don’t be upset if they immediately break your grip and insist on holding your elbow instead. Holding the elbow of a sighted guide is safer than holding hands, and blind people have to be aware and protective of our personal safety. There are many ways to skin a cat, so to speak, but it’s up to us to tell you which way is best for our unique situations.
Note: just because you’ve used a particular method to guide another blind person in the past does not mean you are automatically entitled to use the same method again. We’re all different, and we have individual preferences and needs.

Be specific.

One memorable day, I was walking along with another blind friend. As we headed for the mall, a stranger yelled from across the street: “More left! More left!”
We both looked around, confused, and wondered what on earth he meant. How did he know where we were going? What were we supposed to take from “more left?” How much was “more?” Were these vague instructions even safe to follow?
More than anything else, this stranger’s instructions distracted and befuddled us. If left to our own devices, we would have made our way to the mall without incident. We understood that he was trying to be nice, but his chosen directions were so ambiguous that they did more harm than good.
When verbally guiding a blind person, use specific language. (If you don’t know left from right, please, please don’t use them!) Try to mention landmarks, street names, and other universally recognizable objects. Attempt to convey distance if possible beyond “a little more,” “over there,” “watch out!” and other nonspecific terms. Most importantly, don’t shout instructions across the street, since you might be wrong about our destination and are likely to throw us off course.

Use sound judgment.

Let’s say a blind person is making their way across a busy intersection. They’re about halfway across, and you decide they might need help crossing the street. You roll down your window and call out to them. They startle, seem annoyed, and keep walking without responding to you.
Has this happened to you? If so, don’t’ take it personally.
Navigating around traffic and other demanding tasks require close attention—attention we can’t afford to split between keeping ourselves safe and conversing with someone else. Most of us use our ears to feel secure when we travel, so it’s best not to add to all the noise pollution we already have to tune out. Attending to more stimuli than necessary is not something we generally find helpful, so if we’re not seeking help, leaving us alone is key. More than once, I’ve been jolted out of my “travel zone” by someone offering unsolicited assistance at just the wrong moment. I understand that not everyone is able to judge whether the situation is appropriate, which is, of course, why I’m writing this guide!

Don’t let your feelings run wild.

A few mornings ago, I was headed for my office when someone shouted “No, Meagan!”
I jumped, badly startled, and said “What?”
“You’re headed for that door over there. That’s not your room.”
“Um…no, I wasn’t headed for the wrong door. I’m not even sure which door you’re referring to. I was headed through these double doors over here.”
“No, you weren’t.”
“I…definitely was…”
“Whatever, then!”
She stormed off in a huff, no doubt wounded. Rejecting her good deed of the day was enough to cause offence and even, it seemed, resentment. I had managed to anger someone simply by not needing their help.
This person made quite a few mistakes here:
• She shouted very suddenly, frightening and distracting me.
• She used general language I couldn’t make sense of, as “over there” is not particularly descriptive.
• She assumed she knew where I was going, even though there were many places I could have been going to besides my office. (Maybe I was looking for the washroom, or the staff room, or the exit, or any number of places.)
• She did not believe me when I explained that I did not need guidance.
• She took it very personally when I continued to make my own way.
As is typical of me, I was far too polite to say any of this to her. I really have to work on that. I did not want to cause strife or make a scene, so I just walked away and let her think she was right. That was the worst thing I could have done, I know, though as she’s done this type of thing before, I doubt the message would have penetrated her obstinacy.
There’s something disconcerting about being told you’re wrong on the basis of absolutely no evidence at all. To my thinking, it takes an awful lot of confidence and nerve to assert that you know someone better than they know themselves. I’ve never seen an able person continually gaslighted, to the point where they wonder whether they really are going the wrong way. The attitude of “You’re blind, so I must know better” is disturbing, and I’d like to see it disappear.

Let’s recap, shall we?


So, try to remember that, while we appreciate help and occasionally need it, there’s a right and wrong way to give it. If we refuse your offer, don’t interpret it as a personal slight. If we explain the best way to help, respect our knowledge and expertise. If we become frustrated when our space is violated, don’t resent us.
Finally, if we tell you that your help was unwanted, don’t accuse us of ingratitude. We’ve no right to be excessively rude about it, but we do have the right to say no. Disabled people do need help, but only we get to decide what that looks like.

Inclusion For All! (Unless You’re Disabled)

Yesterday, I went through a fascinating but painful experience on Twitter. A very popular activist posted an important piece of information about the women’s march, saying she wanted it to reach as many people as possible and encouraging people to share far and wide. As it turns out, these were pretty words: while she did host a plain-text version of the information on her website, the tweet contained an inaccessible image with the text inside. This makes it impossible for screen readers to interpret the contents of the image, leaving out anyone with too little vision to read the message without sighted help. What is more, this woman placed a URL to the accessible version inside the inaccessible image, completely defeating the purpose of including it at all!
Wanting to make the information easier to access, another disability activist asked that the original poster tweet the URl on its own, and stressed the importance of accommodating screen readers, particularly since the tweet was meant to be available to everyone. If you want something shared widely, then including as many people as possible makes sense.
I joined the conversation (I’m a glutton for punishment), pointing out that Twitter has a handy alt text feature that makes it possible and easy to describe images. This feature would have been perfect for making sure the URL was readable for everyone, including blind screen reader users. I did not expect immediate action; I didn’t even expect a response at all. I just wanted to raise awareness about an option that is often overlooked and that would save people so much time and effort.
What did I get for my trouble? Well, nothing encouraging. Two of this activist’s followers jumped into my Twitter mentions to tell me the following.
• I had no right to “harass” someone who is doing her best.
• I was devaluing the tireless, exhausting work she was doing.
• I should go find something “real” to complain about.
• The only reason I was speaking up was that I was “bored with my life” and had nothing better to do. (Yes, because a full-time job, a social life, a relationship, and a budding freelance career mean I’m ever so bored and useless. I adore being judged based on nothing at all.)
• I should stop attacking people on Twitter.

Let’s break this down. A person (whose followers presumably agree with her) professes commitment to inclusiveness. Intersectionality, a buzzword many on the far left are fond of using, only applies to some groups. Disability is not included in that group, which is typical of a lot of feminist, left-wing activism; we’re often invisible to the loudest, proudest voices. Since I am disabled, I must be a bored, unproductive person. Asking for access is considered harassment by default, even when it’s a fairly polite, solitary tweet devoid of name-calling and anger. My concerns aren’t “real” or meaningful. Inclusion doesn’t include me, or other disabled people, and sharing far and wide means restricting your audience, even after you’re told how to remedy the issue. Finally, harassment doesn’t go both ways: tearing a stranger to pieces and continuing to tweet them after I’ve said I’m done with the conversation is acceptable, but sending one informational tweet is not.
I hate hypocrisy, and it’s inexpressibly devastating to come across it in the very communities that are supposed to support and include minorities. Why is disability so often absent from these people’s minds, and why, when it’s brought to their attention, is it so callously and vehemently dismissed? Why don’t we count?
I try to be patient with people. I try not to live a life of constant rage and victimhood. I realize that baby steps are par for the course and our rights and humanity won’t be fully recognized overnight. Education is vital and not every activist should be expected to have intimate knowledge of what we need right off the bat.
You would think, however, that once they’re enlightened, they’d act on what they have learned. Many of them do; later in the day, another Twitter user I approached apologized and was more than happy to make changes to her inaccessible tweets. Her warmth, sincerity, and complete lack of defensiveness were exactly what I needed after such a disappointing encounter.
I can put this down as one unfortunate incident and move on, and I intend to do just that. Before putting it behind me, though, I feel bound to tell people about my experience, and explain why that never should have been allowed to happen. Even among supposedly inclusive circles, I was treated like an annoyance who should just go away and stop complaining already. These people have “real” work to do. Can’t I leave them to do it?
This is not okay. You cannot and should not be allowed to get away with cherry-picking which minorities to support. You should not get to decide who is worthy and who is not. We’re not perfect, and sometimes we are guilty of cutting people down for honest mistakes. Despite this, I will continue to hold inclusive communities accountable for their refusal to acknowledge and stand with us. (Predictably enough, the activist I tweeted did not back me up or tell her followers to stop.)
In the meantime, I’m going to appreciate and uplift those who are willing to listen and act. The world isn’t all bad, and I can’t let myself drown in a sea of rage-fuel that really isn’t personal. I know I’m not useless. I know that my access requests are legitimate. I know I’m worthy of respect. I’ll just have to wait patiently for everyone to clue in, I suppose.
Now, excuse me while I get back to my productive, useful life.

My Words Are My Own: Language Policing In The Disability Community

“Don’t talk about yourself that way!”
“You shouldn’t devalue yourself!”
“You should always use person-first language. Do not put your disability before your personhood.”

I remember the first time I encountered the language police, and experienced the odd sensation of having my own words criticized and found unsuitable. It’s one thing to be careful when addressing other disabled people and the community as a whole; words are powerful and should be used with care. Even so, I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to being told that the words I use to describe myself are objectively wrong.
If you are at all familiar with the disability community, you’ve probably seen an article or three about the importance of person-first language: “person with disability” supposedly places the person before the disability, preventing people from letting disability define them in any way. (The policing of individual identities has long puzzled me. What is the deal with that?)
I’m perfectly willing to address and describe others in the way they prefer. Respecting individual preferences is a practice I value very highly. Autonomy is a luxury we are so often denied. Far be it from me to take it away from someone else, especially if their voice is not as loud as my own.
However, when it comes to my own identity and disability, I consider my words and preferences to be above everyone else’s. I do not say this out of arrogance or dismissal of the beliefs of others. My ears are always open, and the way I define myself has shifted with time and experience. That said, if I want to call myself visually impaired instead of partially sighted, disabled instead of differently abled, or normal instead of special, that is my prerogative. I do not feel that anyone has the right to dictate how I ought to view myself, particularly not on my own blog. (Besides, I find “person with a disability” clunky, especially when it comes up multiple times. It’s just quicker and easier to say “disabled.”)
For the most part, this misplaced desire to correct and police my language comes from misguided, well-intentioned able people, who do not understand that just because that one blind guy they know doesn’t mind being called special doesn’t mean they’re at liberty to assume everyone feels that way. I’m constantly running into the frustrating notion that disabled people’s wishes are not as important as nondisabled people’s. I am angered and dismayed by the idea that they know better than we do, and it seems that even those with minimal knowledge of the community are willing to tell us we’re wrong.
Surprisingly, though, some of this policing comes from fellow disabled people, who seem to think that I am somehow harming or degrading myself by using terms they deem offensive. Offence is ultimately an individual experience, and I do not believe anyone can seriously expect to know what should offend me and what should not.
I personally find euphemisms like “differently abled” and “handicapable” repugnant. I see them as proof that society still wishes to tiptoe around disability, remaining unable to fully accept and make peace with its existence. Branding me special or differently abled takes away from the fact that my condition is basically just a hardware failure. No, it does not have to define me, and no, it does not consume my whole life, but yes, it’s a meaningful part of me—one I’ve learned to live with in relative contentment. There is no need to gloss it over or refer to it using roundabout language designed to make able people feel better about it.
Please do not police my language when I describe myself. Please do not presume to know how I should treat my own identity. Please do not shame me for the way I choose to look at myself and my place in the wider world. By all means, let me know your perspective on the best terms to use in general, but do not take it upon yourself to set me straight when I’m talking about myself. When it comes to my blindness, and mine alone, I know best.

How Do You … Stay Organized?

This week, we have another post in the new “How do you…” series. As always, I’m wide open to suggestions!


How do you stay organized?

Uh-oh. I was afraid of this one.
Is this where I admit that I live in a constant state of organized chaos?
Okay, I lied…about the organized part. Basically I live in chaos. My life is chaos, okay? Happy now?
All right, so I do have some ability to keep track of my belongings, and since blind people spend a good deal of our precious time finding and identifying objects, I thought it made sense to address this topic today, squirmy as it makes me.
The key to relative success seems to involve a whole lot of consistency. If I, as a blind person, don’t put things back where I found them, I will never find them again (or, when I do find them, it’ll be because I tripped over them). Since I’d rather not spend my life rescuing items from the danger zone that is my floor, I use a combination of labels, technology, and complex organizational systems to ensure everything is easy to keep track of.
Labels are very useful, especially when I can use handy gadgets like the Pen Friend. The pen comes with special adhesive tags that you can attach to objects. You touch the tip of the pen to the label, hold down a “record” button, and speak your desired message aloud. Then, each time you touch the pen to that specific label, it will play back your message. I use this to categorize my vast tea collection, for example.
My memory isn’t what it was—a combination of medication and migraines has seen to that—but I still rely on it for simpler organization. I memorize which items of clothing make great outfits, and line up foods in my cupboards a certain way so I can prevent culinary disasters (like that time I almost used frozen berries instead of frozen peas).
Technology is more of a last resort: if my other systems have failed, or if I’m unable to identify something I’ve just purchased, there are mobile apps I can use to take photos of objects and have them identified for me. The process can necessitate a whole lot of fiddling, especially since one of my many weaknesses is taking awful photos, but it works well in a pinch.
Perhaps now my sighted friends will understand why it’s imperative that blind people’s belongings be left alone. If you reorganize or move our possessions without our permission or knowledge, you could inadvertently disrupt a complex system that will be difficult to straighten out. Besides the fact that leaving objects where you find them is an element of basic courtesy, failing to do so can throw us off for days while we struggle to put things right. Please, be careful and respectful when handling our things. We appreciate it very much.

How Do You … Coordinate Your Clothing?

Lately, the blog has focused more on introspection than education, so it’s high time I returned to that theme. This week, I’ll introduce a new series of explanations on how I accomplish certain tasks as a blind person. I get so many questions on various topics that I think I’d like to devote a short series of posts to them, so in addition to regular posts, I’ll be writing this series as well. If you have questions or suggestions, please get in touch!
While I cannot speak for all blind people, and may not use the best techniques out there, there is enough public interest that I feel posts like this will be of use to someone (and may cut back on the zillions of questions I answer while trying to go about my business)!

How do you coordinate your clothes?

Dressing well is one of my top priorities. I’ve never been a fashion enthusiast, and I tend to favour comfort and utility over style, but I still value my appearance. Few things make people take me more seriously, both professionally and personally, than a well-chosen outfit. There persists an unfortunate stereotype: the sloppily-dressed blind person, wearing inside-out tops, unsuitable combinations, and mismatched socks. (This last is okay, in my book, mind you.) Since this is what so many people expect from me, I’m careful to prove them wrong.
I’m fortunate to live in a time when blind people are no longer universally advised to dress as neutrally and uninterestingly as possible. Taking risks with clothing, making fashion statements, or seeking individuality is no longer as discouraged as it once was. The public may still look at unusual outfits and assume that the poor blind person was just clueless (God forbid we exercise agency when we dress unconventionally), but we’re working to abolish this notion. We are realizing, as a collective, that we have every right to experiment and embrace our own sense of style. We don’t have to restrict ourselves to a dull, uninspired wardrobe simply because we can’t see.
So, how do I do it? I tend to cheat a little: I have enough usable vision to discern at least some colours, so this helps me keep track of which colour combinations I’m using. Understanding on a gut level which colours clash is never something I’ve been able to grasp, but I can at least go along with conventional wisdom.
One important thing I do is solicit feedback from sighted people I trust. Going shopping with someone whose eyes are fully functional reduces anxiety and helps me choose clothing more confidently. Learning to prioritize my preferences over other people’s opinions is still a struggle for me, as I have too little faith in my sense of taste, but I’m working on balancing sighted people’s opinions with my own instincts. I’ve been criticized for my love of ankle-length skirts, for example, but when I actually wear them, people realize they suit me well. Colouring inside the lines isn’t always the best choice, I promise.
Finally, I tend to choose clothing that’s both diverse in style and easy to coordinate. I go for dark-coloured skirts and pants so that I can wear virtually any colour of top and get away with it. I used to avoid anything that wasn’t black or white for fear of messing up, but I now experiment with brighter colours and more interesting outfits. My other strategy is to pick clothing with a distinctive fabric or shape, so I can distinguish, say, a yellow tank top from a white one. One day, I may have to use special tags or clothing labels to keep my wardrobe organized, but for now my memory works best.
Do I make mistakes? Absolutely, but more often than not, I receive praise for being so well-dressed. That’s good enough for me.

Guide Dogs For All? Maybe Not.

Ask any guide dog user, and just about all of them will be happy to wax poetic about how much they love having a guide dog. They’re willing to acknowledge that it’s hard work, and that it can be too frustrating for words, but it’s all worth it in the end, they’ll say. Their reactions are much the same as those of many parents: having children is stressful and life-changing, but it’s always, unquestionably worth it.
So, because we only ever seem to hear from those who are living the guide dog dream (or those, like me, who choose to embrace the cane and nothing else), there’s a third group remaining mostly silent. This group includes two types of people. The first type consists of people who like guide dog travel in general but had a very negative experience with a particular dog. The other type consists of those who drank the Kool-Aid, believed that having a guide dog is for absolutely everyone, and learned otherwise. They learned the hard way, and while they may have adored their dogs and may not be completely closed to trying again in future, they have come away feeling disillusioned, alienated and, in some cases, inadequate. Was it some failing of theirs that led to the collapse of their dream? Could they have done more? Been better? Tried harder?
I want to tell the stories of just a few members of this badly-misunderstood group. I want to extend their experiences beyond the scope of family and friends, so that they can be heard alongside the overwhelming joy from guide dog users everywhere. I don’t seek to take anything away from happy guide dog users, but I do want to lift the voices of people whose stories have, I believe, been neglected for far too long.
Three brave souls have come forward to speak candidly about how it felt to take the leap, fall short, and realize they made a mistake. Regret may not plague them, but they definitely have a very different outlook from those who have found universal success and contentment living with a guide dog. My hope is that other people with disabilities will read this and be encouraged. Having a service dog may be for many people, but it’s not for everyone, and that’s okay.
Note: These are not horror stories. They are tales of real people who underwent real suffering. Please respect that.

Toeing the Party Line: Alicia’s Story

Alicia grew up with a cane in her hand, incorporating it seamlessly into her travel routine, and benefiting from comprehensive mobility training. Comfortable as she was with her cane, she thought as so many people do: true independence could only be found through a guide dog.
Believing that guide dogs were the only sensible option for independent blind people, Alicia never analyzed her decision to get a service dog. It was so deeply-engrained that no other choice seemed viable, let alone wise. It was this belief, perhaps, that made her particular experience so devastating.
So, once she completed high school, she was matched with Dusty, a yellow lab with whom she bonded immediately.
Much as she enjoyed the smoothness and grace of dog travel, Alicia soon ran into trouble.

I started dealing with a struggle none of my other classmates seemed to be having. I found myself missing the tactile feedback that came with using my cane. I didn’t like the method of having to use my feet to search for the things I could have, in my opinion, found much more easily with my cane. When I brought this up to my trainers, they told me it was just part of the transition everyone went through.

Reassured, Alicia took Dusty home, and embarked on the stressful journey that is college. Predictably, however, the emotional and mental exhaustion brought on by so many life changes affected her partnership with Dusty. She began leaving him at home here and there, relishing the freedom and confidence she felt only when holding a cane. She found caring for him burdensome, though she loved him dearly and refused to neglect him for any reason. She even began to miss the low-maintenance nature of cane travel.

I dearly missed being able to come back from a long day of classes and other activities, put my cane in the corner, and rest like I did in high school.

Finally, Alicia had to accept that she and her dog were both desperately unhappy, and even though the decision broke her heart, she surrendered Dusty. She had no way of knowing what would happen to him, where he’d go, or to whom he’d be assigned, but she knew that she’d made the right decision, if not the easy one.

I don’t hear many stories like mine. In fact, I’m trying to remember if I ever have heard any other stories similar to mine. … A small percentage of the time, I wonder what was wrong with me as a blind person that it seems to work for everyone else, but didn’t work for me. However, most of the time, I realize that a dog is not the right choice for everyone, and I’m simply one of those.

Welcome to the Spotlight: Holly’s Story

Holly, unlike Alicia, did not consider a cane to be an extension of herself. Receiving regular mobility lessons as a child did introduce her to the art of cane travel, but not until her mid teens did she understand that she should probably start using one. Always comfortable and fearless in her own neighbourhood, Holly and her family saw no need for her to rely on a cane, and it was not until she grew too independent to tolerate sighted guide that she chose to use one full-time.
Struggling to find suitable mobility training with a cane, she resolved to apply for a guide dog, reasoning that she would then receive mobility training as a matter of course. It was the only way she could guarantee the independence she craved.
Thrilled by the power mobility training gave her, Holly went on to be matched with a dog. The training went well, but Holly soon discovered that no matter how much you enjoy travelling with a service dog, you’ll have to make some sacrifices.

I got my dog, and the first year was incredibly stressful. I’m not shy, but I am not especially sociable. I don’t like strangers, I don’t like talking to people in public unless it’s a planned event. I want to move through the world quietly the way most people can. And I had no idea that getting a guide dog would prevent me from doing that.

As Holly spent more time with her guide dog, she discovered that blending in was now impossible. She couldn’t go about her business unnoticed or unencumbered, because “the public won’t let you.” She was forever fielding questions that were centred only on her dog, as though she was just a “vessel” attached to her dog’s harness. When she wasn’t answering questions, she was telling people off for feeding, touching, and distracting her dog. This life took a serious toll on Holly.

It was terrible. I cried most days. I hated being so visible, and yet utterly invisible all at once. I hated that I’d undergone this huge personal transformation and yet nobody saw me as a person.

Distraught, Holly considered giving up her dog, though conversations with her father, who was a dog handler for the army, persuaded her to be patient. Wait a year, he suggested, and if she was still unhappy at the end of it, she could return her dog.
Holly has chosen to persevere, but she acknowledges that it’s hard to “come out” as someone who doesn’t love being a guide dog handler.

We have this awful culture within the blind community where we can’t be honest if owning a guide dog actually feels a bit shit. It has to be sunshine and rainbows or you’re a failure.

When the Dog is the Problem: John’s Story

Of course, not all guide dogs are perfectly suited for the job. Every dog has flaws—they’re not robots—but some have quirks and tendencies that make you wonder why the school allowed the dog to graduate.
John was an unfortunate victim of this circumstance. He was pleased by his dog’s guidework, but the dog had an unfortunate vice: “My dog is a poop-eater.”
In contrast to Holly’s and Alicia’s stories, John wasn’t new to guide dogs. He worked with his first guide for over eight years, and so had no reservations about getting a second one. He was matched, and began training soon afterword.
When John was told that the dog liked to eat poop, he was a bit concerned, but didn’t waste excessive energy being anxious about it. He was certain that, with patience and persistence, the issue could be resolved. What is more, the trainer agreed to help with the process.

The instructor agreed to monitor the dog while he was in training. … For the most part, the dog behaved himself for the week and a half that I was with the instructor. Over time, I learned that not only would the dog eat poop, but he would also eat nuts, pinecones, grass, and everything else that was inedible.

The situation only worsened. John’s dog progressed to eating his own waste, which was quite a problem in enclosed spaces like his apartment, where his shag carpeting suffered most (no other carpeting was available, and cleaning it was a nightmare). Still, John remained admirably optimistic.

After eating poop, he would often vomit on my apartment carpet several hours later. At first, I found the whole thing disgusting, but felt upbeat and determined to solve the problem.

Calling the school was not as helpful as he’d hoped, though. He was told that disciplining the dog was nearly-impossible, because John would have to catch the dog in the act—a tall order if you can’t see what your dog is doing. To add to the fun, he was also informed that there was virtually no disciplinary measure he could take, as shock collars and other items would not be effective, either. He was left with only one option: a mouth guard. Unfortunately, that didn’t go so well.

I purchased [a mouth guard]at a Store and used it, but two things happened. First, the dog just lay on the ground and did not move when he had it on during playtime. Second, when he did see another dog doing its business, he ran over and shoved the mouth guard in the waste meaning that I had to clean up his face and the guard. At this point, I began feeling both helpless and frustrated. Why was I given a dog with such a severe problem?

As awful as he felt for himself, John also sympathized with his dog. Would the dog have to be constantly restricted when playing or roaming grassy areas? How healthy would his confinement really be for him? Another desperate call to the school only led to advice like “Oh, just play with him inside only.” However, the dog lost interest in this very quickly, leaving John with very few options.
Eventually, John gave up his dog.

I felt sad after he left, because he was truly a good worker and great companion. But I also knew it was the right thing for the dog and myself. After the initial wave of sadness past, I felt relief. I was glad the whole ordeal was over. I also felt a mix of frustration with the school and sorrow that a $30,000 dog only got a year and a couple months of use as a worker. I even felt the need to apologize to the instructor when he came to get the dog. I know how hard his puppy raisers and the team at the school worked to raise him, and I felt bad that all that work would be for nought.

While John may not be disillusioned with the guide dog experience in general, having been successful with it in the past, he has certainly been the victim of the guilt and humiliation inherent in giving up a guide.


While crowd-sourcing stories for this blog post, I was asked, rather confrontationally, what the purpose of the post might be. I suppose this person thought I was running a smear campaign against guide dogs—I don’t know, I didn’t ask. What I do know is that writing this post was an exercise in empathy and compassion, not bitterness or spite. I’m not publishing this post to put force behind my own refusal to get a guide dog. This is not a case of me saying, “See? See? It isn’t always perfect, you know!”
My aim is to expose people to both sides of this complicated choice. For many, guide dog travel is a dream come true. It’s more freeing than they could ever have imagined, and they would never go back to any other mode of travel.
For others, though, the situation is more complex and far less satisfying.
Here is what I ask: if you have read this post all the way through, and have identified with the stories herein, exercise caution when encouraging people to get guide dogs. Ask relevant questions, and ensure that the person you’re speaking to is in the right place—geographically and emotionally—for such an enormous responsibility. Make sure that your encouragement is based on thoughtful consideration, not societal expectation or the warm glow given off by your own positive experiences.
I ask, most importantly, that you be gentle with those for whom guide dog travel isn’t the best choice. Be compassionate. Do not assume that, if it doesn’t work out for them, it must be their fault. Don’t quiz them for hours on end about what they might have done to improve the situation unless you have compelling evidence that there was neglect or abuse involved. (Advice is helpful; judgment is not.) Place pressure on schools to provide necessary after-care and supports when things go awry.
Here’s the gist: you do you, and let them do them, and all manner of things will be well.