Who Am I, And Where’s My Dog?

Who am I?

My name is Meagan. By day, I’m a communications advisor; by night, a freelance editor, a hobby musician, and devoted devourer of books.

I keep busy 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 husband who somehow manages to put up with my quirks.

I procrastinate like all good writers should. I love all creatures great and small, cute and fluffy. I really, really love chocolate, and I really, really hate bugs.

In other words, I’m a lot like you…

Oh yeah, and I’ve been blind from birth.

You might be thinking, “Wait, what’s that you said about being a lot like me?”

Unless you hang around with blind people a lot, you probably can’t help thinking that there’s a certain otherness that characterizes people with visible disabilities like blindness.  In some ways that’s true. We definitely stand out. We walk around with long white sticks (or maddeningly cute doggies you’re not allowed to pet), and we possess a lot of devices that talk. And blind people like me, who have other, less visible disabilities on board, deal with a lot of little-known issues we simply don’t discuss often enough.

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 disability?”

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 disabilities. I believed that a “good disabled person” had to behave as though her disabilities didn’t exist. If they did exist, they were no inconvenience at all. No big deal, I can function just like everybody else, maybe better. I am capable disabled gal, hear me roar!

What I’ve learned since is that, while it is very healthy not to centre my life around blindness and my other disabilities, it’s equally healthy to acknowledge that they’re really damn annoying sometimes.

They’re inconvenient. They make life harder, mostly because of the way people react to them. They’re not divine gifts that make me a better person. They’re just parts of me, undeniable but not all-consuming. And I want you to know what it’s like to live with them.

I want you to know that I routinely deal with questions like “Where’s your dog? You should have a dog!” and “They let you work here?” and my personal favourite, “How can you possibly have a life? How can you be happy?”

I want you to know that I occasionally 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 husband, 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.

I also want you to know that it’s really tough to get hired because so many believe I can’t 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 resent being disabled. This ain’t a picnic in the sun…sometimes.

Mostly, though, I want you to know I’m pretty “normal” and happy, 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 disabled people, but I do know that my story is very much like many others.

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.

Eat, Pray, Panic: Dubious Advice for Uncertain Times

Most people alive today can’t remember a crisis like COVID-19. But as I fumble my way through this strange new way of life, I find myself leaning heavily on lessons I learned ten years ago, during my first brush with life-or-death crisis. Maybe it’ll be helpful for you, too.


I was home alone on summer vacation, lounging in my sloppiest house clothes, when two men, professional thieves judging by the efficient way they ransacked my home, showed up in broad daylight to ruin my day. They kicked in our patio door, tracked mud all over the carpets, and convinced my sheltered teenaged self that I was a minute or two from death or, perhaps, something worse. Like the tough, brave gal everyone knows me to be, I cowered on my bedroom floor and hyperventilated a bunch.

It was fine in the end, other than the afore-mentioned mud-tracking and the disappearance of some of our possessions. No one got hurt, and I would go on to spend many more lazy afternoons in that house, safe and sound.

In the moment, however, it felt every bit the traumatic event that it was. For years afterward, I’d have bouts of irrational panic so strong that I kept many a friend and partner on the phone with me for hours until I had the guts to fall asleep.

What stands out to me now, far more than the horror of that experience, was the way we handled it as a family. Everyone came over—grandparents, aunts and uncles, cousins, the whole herd—and there were tons of hugs. We cried. We complained about the mud. We had a pizza party, because of course we did, and chatted excitedly about the family reunions and music festivals we would be attending later that week. I sent upbeat messages to all my friends—“I’m lucky to be alive but it’s all good, lol”—and absorbed their love and relief. I pulled out the gallows humour, and everyone let me do what I needed to do to keep it together.

We acknowledged the crisis, we made space for our terror, and we carried on. In my entirely inexpert opinion, there’s a lot I, and perhaps some of you, can take from that into the present moment, as we continue to deal with a much larger, more devastating situation.

Desperate Times Call for Desperate Feelings

While it’s vital that we keep cool heads in the face of hysteria, we need to make room for all that fear and bad feeling. Sometimes you need to have that good cry, or that venting session, or that long, dark night of the soul to be okay again.

I’m a pragmatic person who shrinks from drama, but I’ve sent a few melodramatic texts and made a couple of tearful phone calls over the last few weeks. It was good and cleansing and 10/10 would recommend.

This is not a time for us to police our own or others’ grief at the loss of normalcy, sadness at cancelled events, or fear for the fate of sick loved ones. These feelings are new, and the coping mechanisms might also be new. I’ve found myself praying after years of vague agnosticism, and I’ve never found hymns more encouraging than I do right now, even though I have no idea to whom I’m singing. And boy does the gallows humour come in handy these days.

Cry your tears, pray your prayers to whoever, and keep on truckin’.

Life is not Cancelled

Lots and lots of things aren’t happening right now, or have moved to digital spaces that can’t provide the same experience and present accessibility challenges for many disabled people. I am writing this from a place of extraordinary privilege, as I still have a job at the moment, but I am feeling the restless dissatisfaction of being cooped up at home, lacking my routines and suffering declining mental health as a result. Nothing feels right, and we’re far from done with this distressing new normal.

That said, I find it empowering as all heck to hang on to as many things as I can in the face of a crisis. I keep my work schedule as regular as I can, even though I’m working from home and the internal pressure to work extra hours is mounting. I’m carving out time to enjoy my hobbies and keep up with life admin as much as possible, given COVID constraints. I’m taking shelter in the things that haven’t changed, and still writing blog posts, for better or worse.

Some days I don’t have the wherewithal to pretend all is business as usual. Most days, in fact. But I leave the door open to the idea that life can and does trundle along much as before. Disappearing into a comforting, everyday task, even for a few minutes, is more restorative than I ever imagined. Everything may be on fire, but the kitchen still needs cleaning.

Crises are Special Occasions

It’s easy to forget this, especially for those of us whose lines of work involve interactions with a terrified public, but it’s not selfish or unseemly to prioritize pleasure. I, along with many others, am intimately acquainted with the pain and anxiety of strangers, and it is my duty, professionally and personally, to offer aid where I can, and compassion where I can’t.

Nevertheless, crises are special occasions, so I’m using the high-end soap. I’m wearing the outfits that make me feel competent and in control (except when I’m wearing my bunny onesie, obvs). I’m indulging in bubble baths and moisturizing, like some kind of grownup. I’m doing all the hackneyed self-care rituals that aren’t productive but are, in their way, the glue that keeps me in one piece.

So knock yourself out. Play the frivolous video game. Read novels all day long. Order the greasy pizza, and stuff your face with abandon. Bake those cookies. Make a mess. Create fancy, over-the-top cocktails with whatever’s in your house. Drink the good coffee. Let yourself enjoy things, tiny as they may be.

Yes, we need to take this situation seriously. That seriousness is saving lives. But sackcloth, ashes and self-denial aren’t helpful, truly.

Be Nicer Than Necessary

Look, 99% of us are doing our best out here, okay?

You’re scared, but so is the person you just snapped at for standing too close to you. You’re stressed, but so is the cashier you just yelled at because the store is out of toilet paper again. You’re tired, but so is the nurse who hasn’t slept in heaven knows how long. You’re frustrated, but so is the disabled person who needs help with groceries, or transportation, or access issues. You really need a break, but so does the communications professional, the call centre operator, the public official, the politician, the teacher, the employer whom you feel isn’t doing enough.

Be kind, because the smallest of gestures will stick more firmly than the criticism, the anger, the pointing fingers and blame games. Goodwill is thin on the ground these days. Be part of the solution.

Settle in for the Long Haul

This is not going to be over in two weeks. Like most significant crises, the impact will linger long after the life-or-death scenario has run its course. It took me years to be totally comfortable in my parents’ house after that break-in a decade ago, and it will take us months and even years to work out all the ways this pandemic has touched and altered us. Some of us may not make it through at all, and that harsh reality will not soften any time soon.

So, get as comfortable as you can, and assume that this is a marathon, not a sprint. Try to incorporate healthier habits into your lifestyle, so that you can take at least one positive thing away from these terrible circumstances. Prepare to support those around you as we brace for the longer-term effects of depleted social safety nets, overburdened health care systems, and economic instability. Think about who might need you, and what you can do for them. While you’re doing that, don’t forget to consider how this is likely to affect you, and accept the fact that you’ll need to get really good at reaching out for help.

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We’re all in this together, as everyone knows. Acknowledge the gravity of this crisis. Make space for your terror. Eat some pizza. Carry on.

Finding Your Hive: Longing for Usefulness as a Disabled Worker Bee

Over the past few years, I’ve been focusing less on sheer survival and more on living in a way that brings me lasting contentment. Common wisdom for such a pursuit most often begins with ‘find your tribe’ sentiments.

Said wisdom did seem to be working well for most everyone I knew. Each time a friend picked up a hobby or clicked with a social group, their general happiness seemed to improve tenfold. Then there was me: phenomenal friends, supportive coworkers, closely knit family, thriving romantic partnership. My social life was thriving for the first time since high school, and loneliness had become something other people suffered. I was even beginning to explore creative hobbies after too much time spent in stagnation. My writing showed promise, and music, that stalwart friend, was a central part of my life again.

So where was the life improvement squad? Where was the revelatory sense of purpose? Where was the click?

Maybe I was supposed to order it. Maybe I’d have to go online and fill out some form and half the fields would be unlabelled and everything would be colour-coded and then the CAPTCHA verification would be inaccessible and maybe I should just have a nap?

Anyway, just as I accepted my destiny as incorrigible malcontent, I found a comfortable niche at a new job. The work I do offers abundant opportunity for individual accomplishment, but there is also a lot of work that’s unglamourous, uncredited and, therefore, quite unpopular. It needs done, and when it’s done well it brings enormous value to the team, but no one likes doing it.

Well, no one but me.

Once I developed a widespread reputation for being the person who’s up for anything, always willing to embrace the ‘hard’ in ‘hard work,’ I felt it — my resounding click. I was useful, and that was just what I’d been looking for.

You see, like many rural kids, I grew up in a culture obsessed with usefulness. There was always work to do, and if there wasn’t, you weren’t looking hard enough. All around me, my sighted peers were making themselves useful mowing acres of grass, feeding livestock, doing renovations, operating farm equipment, changing someone’s oil. You name it, someone my age was doing it.

As for me, I could usually be found unloading the dishwasher or doing laundry while everyone else rushed about doing things I was too blind to tackle. In an environment like mine, if you couldn’t drive, couldn’t see, couldn’t learn purely by observation (no one had time for adapted training, even if they’d known how to carry it out), there was no sugar-coating it: you weren’t of much use. I know plenty of rural blind people learn most of these things by grit or gumption or good, patient teaching—see you in the comments, guys, keep it civil—but for reasons that are numerous and complicated and not at all relevant here, I didn’t.

So, in effect, I spent my formative years knowing I was not very useful, while up to my eyeballs in a culture devoted to utility. As you can guess, that understanding sank deep into my marrow and helped forge who I’d become: A restless, rudderless person who couldn’t work out what would make her truly happy.

Being academically inclined was nice. Being reasonably intelligent was handy enough; that would help me make money later, maybe. My singing brought others joy, even if it wasn’t going to babysit their kids or cook their dinners. But I felt like a defective worker bee in a very busy hive, and no one seemed to know what to do with me.

It took me way too long to realize what I need for true contentment is less ‘find your tribe’ than ‘find your hive’. I’m not wired for attention and I’m not especially motivated by approval. I like working with other people, but community, important as it is, doesn’t fulfill me on its own. As it turns out, finding my people is my nice-to-have, not my must-have. What I hunger for isn’t attention, recognition, or a group of people who ‘get’ me, though I won’t say no to them. Instead, I am the ultimate team player, totally invested in a job well done. I want to have your back, not take your limelight. I want you to notice me for my dependability, not so much for my brilliance, though again: I won’t say no to that either. If I’m competing with anyone besides myself, it’s to see who is most helpful, not who is most impressive. I hunger for the knowledge that because I’m around, doing my best work, someone else’s life is easier.

I wonder, as I write this, whether other disabled people have the same worker bee drive. Plenty of nondisabled people crave this sort of external validation, of course, but I have a feeling there are a lot of disabled people out there who, having been labelled ‘of little use,’ have grown into restless, rudderless people like me, asking themselves why they never feel whole unless others are counting on them.

And I’m sure there are many more out there who have yet to feel useful, at least by society’s narrow standards. Isn’t most disability defined, after all, by the work a person can or can’t do? By our earning potential? By our limited ability to contribute financially via the labour market? Don’t so many of us find that the only thing worse than a bad job is no job at all? Beyond financial constraints, what would unemployment say about us and our worth?

I think you’re out there, worker bees. I think you’re worried about whether you’ll ever be useful enough, and I think you find meaning in what you manage to get done. I believe you have mixed feelings about the fact that the toxic mentality that made you feel small and inadequate is giving you such fulfillment. I expect you live to hear people say, “you really helped me out today,” and I’d bet some part of you balks at the very thought of being so vulnerable to how others feel about you.

If I were to guess, I’d say you might even question whether enjoying your usefulness demonstrates a lack of self-respect, a brokenness, an internalized ableism you can’t quite shake.

Am I getting warmer?

So if you’re out there, worker bees, I propose the middle ground, as I so often do. Delight in your usefulness. Find the niche that lets you be a go-to person, even if it’s for something simple. Relish it without apology.

Yes, our society is obsessed with measuring the utility of human beings and punishing or rewarding them accordingly. Yes, that obsession is more pronounced and more damaging when those humans happen to be disabled. But don’t let that deprive you of the pride and fulfillment you derive from your ordinary, unglamourous work. Don’t chase admiration simply because someone told you that the only good disabled person is an outstanding one. Most importantly, don’t you ever buy in, the way I did, to the idea that your value lies in how well you stack up next to nondisabled people. That way lies madness. Life doesn’t have to be a competition. The unremarkable, uncredited tasks you perform every day have weight. All you have to be is the best version of yourself.

Go, worker bee, and find your hive. And when you do, take what brings you happiness and leave the rest.

“You Got a Permit for Those Feelings, Ma’am?”

When we think about gaslighting, we tend to focus on calculated, premeditated abuse, carried out over time for some nefarious purpose. We rarely think of it as something unconscious and unintentional — something we do to ourselves and each other, in some cases with disturbing frequency. Gaslighters are vindictive, manipulative bullies. Gaslighters aren’t decent, well-intentioned folks in widespread, shared denial. And gaslighters certainly aren’t members of marginalized communities who have learned to second-guess their perspectives. Perish the thought!

I’ve generally thought of gaslighting as something that rarely happens to me, something other people deal with, until a recent moment of public humiliation at the hands of well-intentioned strangers brought me up short.

Two recruiters for some sort of club approached my sighted friend and me, diving straight into their pitch without preamble. My friend grabbed a pamphlet, but I was totally in the dark about what was going on and who these people were. They spent the next few minutes talking about me as though I were an engaging art installation.

“Can she speak?”

“She can speak, right?”

“Our club is for, you know, all individuals.”

“Even she could participate in this, I think!”

“She’s okay, right? She can…”

“I know you’re guiding her today, but we could work something out…”

“And she really can speak?”

During this onslaught, I struggled to get my bearings while one of the strangers held some food item, a bag of chips as it turned out, right under my nose without explanation. I kept interjecting, trying to redirect their attention, to demonstrate my ability to have this conversation for myself, but nothing I said got through to them. Meanwhile, my poor friend stood there, horrified but unable to extricate us from the situation.

Finally, my attack of politeness paralysis lifted: “Excuse me but we really need to go.”

As we power-walked away, my friend swung between apologizing and expressing shock.

“Did that just happen? I am so so sorry! I didn’t know what to do. Did that seriously just happen?”

I assured her there was nothing she could have done differently and thanked her for acknowledging my own shock and embarrassment. We parted ways, and I was preparing to shove this incident into my trusty ‘shit happens’ folder when I realized something at once forgettable and bizarre: I had thanked her for being upset about this. The first articulate thing I’d thought after it happened was, thank God I had a sighted person with me. I was hugely grateful to someone for whom this sort of treatment was an anomaly, not an inevitability, the way it is for me. I was relieved that she’d been there, with her working eyes, to assess my feelings and find them valid.

Why?

This realization crystalized further as I sent a message to a blind friend I knew would understand.

“The sighted friend I was with was more upset than I’ve ever seen her. That gave me permission to be, I guess. I dunno. I’m still shaking.”

There it was, in plain language. Somewhere along the line, I’d become so distrustful of my own perceptions of reality that I needed validation, sighted validation in particular, before I’d let myself react. What was this self-diminishing nonsense, and when had it started?

If I’m being truthful, this subtler form of gaslighting began early, and it came from just about everywhere. Remember those decent folks I mentioned earlier? The ones in widespread denial? I believe I learned this pattern, however unwittingly, from kindly people who couldn’t bear the idea that they could do real damage without even knowing it, who clung stubbornly to the belief that intentions trump results, always.

How many times had I been encouraged to be extra patient, unfailingly gracious? People just don’t know what to do with me. How to talk to me. How to work with me. How to live alongside me

How often had I been reminded, by sighted and blind people alike, not to be too hard on people because they didn’t know any better? They’d never met someone like me before. Not everyone has read my blog. They didn’t mean it. I read the situation wrongly. They meant well. I must have misunderstood.

And how many comments have I heard and read, online and off, asking for sighted validation? Was anyone sighted with you? Did anyone see what happened? Maybe you misheard? Maybe it would help if you could see their faces? Most communication is nonverbal — maybe you’re just not good with social cues? Maybe there was something going on you couldn’t see?

Then there is the gaslighting I have done to myself. Even a sighted person couldn’t have done this, known this, understood this, accomplished this, noticed this, fixed this. I had a sighted person check so I know it’s okay. I need a sighted opinion on this please. I wish I had a pair of eyes to verify this.

Sure, sometimes I misunderstand things, miss out on context, because my eyes don’t work. Sometimes I need someone’s vision: Did this document print okay? Is this picture what I think it is? What’s on my screen right now? Did she look upset or was she smiling when she said that?

But when I get to a place where either a sighted person was there to witness it or it didn’t happen—either a sighted person thinks what happened to me is discrimination or it doesn’t count—something is very, very wrong. And I doubt I’m the only one doing this self-defeating dance.

I should be leaning on all my friends, sighted and blind, for everyday validation, the kind many of us crave when we’ve been through something difficult. I am comforted when people join me in my anger and acknowledge my shame. What my sighted friend did for me that day, standing beside me, getting offended right along with me, was good and kind and helpful.

The wrongness lay in my intense relief that her sight, more than any of my own senses, gave me permission to feel my feelings; that I worried about confiding in too many other friends for fear they’d poke holes and imply I shouldn’t be upset; that some internet commentator would materialize to tell me I don’t get to be offended; that any of this would influence me so easily.

The fact remains that I was there. It happened to me, not a friend or coworker or random internet troll. I should be able to own my reaction and sit with it a while without guilt or undue doubt. I should be able to confide in some friends, take in their support, ignore any advice I didn’t ask for, and move the hell on with my life.

The good news is that I believe I’ve learned my lesson. This incident should have been an annoying blip, not a miniature crisis of faith in my judgment. Speaking of faith, it’s time I placed more of it in my perception, less of it in hidden, well-intentioned gaslighting, and mastered the art of sitting still with what hurts me without picking apart that hurt or trying to explain it all away.

In case my faith crisis is also your faith crisis, here are some thoughts. People will behave in ways that hurt you. Sometimes you will have witnesses; mostly, you won’t. You will have feelings about the things that harm you, like shame and embarrassment and even rage. Some people will disagree with you about those feelings and whether you should experience them at all.

Here’s the wild, subversive, beautiful bit: You don’t have to change, suppress, or deny your feelings. You get to sit with them, express them without questioning their fairness, their reasonableness, their right to exist. Then you get to let them go, and carry on living a kind and gracious life, whatever that looks like for you.

If you want to educate those who hurt you, if you want to cut them some slack or analyze their reasoning or question your reading of the situation, there will be plenty of time for that later. But the immediate aftermath of a painful thing is not for educating or reasoning or arguing on Facebook with your cousin’s hairdresser about whether it was really as bad as you claim. No, immediate aftermaths are for your anger, and your shame, and your frustration with this silly old world.

Put out your gaslight, friend. You won’t be needing it anymore.

Beautiful Things Are Happening

I remember the first time I worried I might not ever be okay.
I was fourteenish, embroiled in a toxic not-quite-relationship with an older boy who’d discovered the exquisite pleasure of exploiting my insecurities. I had burgeoning confidence in my potential; I could picture a successful, if difficult, road ahead. But secure, relatively intelligent young girls who are quite sure they’re doing all right aren’t any fun to manipulate, so he began to poke holes in my bright future.
“You really need to be more independent,” was the regular refrain, delivered with tender cruelty I was meant to mistake for tough love.
“It’s a hard world out there, dear,” and “you’ll struggle for sure,” and “good thing I’m here to help.”
I got miffed, all the time. I even pushed back some, when courage was close at hand. On some level, I understood these criticisms were as rich as turtle cheesecake coming from a person who had accomplished less in his 18 years than I had in the four years that separated us. I had a lot to learn, in the blindness skills department most of all, but I was competing at music festivals, getting excellent grades, and managing not one but two chronic conditions without much medical support. I was about as on track as any teenager I knew.
He, on the other hand, was perpetually angry, hopelessly off track, with an uncertain future and a penchant for blaming his disabilities for abusive outbursts and bouts of frightening possessiveness. If anything, I should have been the one clucking with concern, but much as I sensed the wrongness of it all, I let his doubt poison my faith. Faith is there when the odds aren’t favourable, and to be disabled in a harsh world is to live with unfavourable odds. And faith, more than skills and talents and support, has always been the engine of my success for that very reason. I’m convinced he knew that.
In my senior year of high school, that engine had all but stalled. I’d broken all contact with that toxic friend long before, and he had since died suddenly. He could no longer mail me packages I didn’t want, or threaten suicide if I didn’t play nicer, or use social media to stalk me, or email sanctimonious lectures about my tragic inability to take care of myself. But the damage was done. He had triggered a landslide of second-guessing that, helped along by myriad forces in my life, had buried me to the point where all I could do was dread everything – dread university, dread my first job, dread new cities and exciting adventures and fresh mistakes to run with. I still had so much to learn, and I was paralyzed, rather than energized, by all of it.
Depressing, amiright?
Fortunately for us all, this is a new-year-new-decade reflection post, and those have to have a happy ending and a hopeful outlook. Them’s the rules.
The past decade has presented a lot of pain and self-doubt, brought on in many cases by the doubt of others. The pressure to make something of myself—to ‘transcend’ blindness, chronic pain, mental illness, limited educational opportunities, the whole bit—sat smugly atop the self-defeating prophecy that I’d never do or be enough. What was the point in trying?
But it has also blessed me with plenty of people who had so much faith that they couldn’t conceive of me being anything other than enough, maybe more than enough. I’d make mistakes, sure, and fall flat on my face a few times given that stubborn streak running through me. Ultimately, though, I’d pick myself up and keep charging ahead, because that’s just who I am.
“Listen,” one friend said bracingly during one of my late-night fall-apart sessions, “you are going to screw things up sometimes, in the blindness department and in the general life department. You’ll put reds in with your whites and burn hell out of your dinner and at some point you’re going to get really lost in a new place, and all of that will suck.”
“Exactly!” I wailed, missing the point spectacularly.
“It’ll suck, but you’ll wake up the next day and realize that life keeps going. And you’ll discover after a while that trying stuff is messy and scary and you can’t be good at everything you touch. I was embarrassingly far into living on my own before I felt comfortable with my life skills. I survived. You’ll survive too, and then you’ll understand that when someone says ‘you’ll never make it,’ that’s not helping you. That’s not motivation. That’s not love.”
This come-to-Jesus moment came on the heels of another friend getting so sick of my constant self-flagellation that he nearly cried with sheer frustration.
“I swore to myself I wouldn’t sit here and watch you do this to yourself anymore. Seeing you beat the shit out of yourself all the time hurts me, and it’s not my idea of a good time. Cut it out.”
(Some of my friends sure knew how to bring the constructive tough love, wowsers.)
As many of you know, I did end up going to university and getting jobs and doing fine on my own. I learned most of the skills I’d need to do well in the world as a disabled person, as a writer, as a professional, as an aunt and mentor and wife. And at one of my lowest moments, total strangers would remind me that I’m not alone in my doubt and my despair, that if you’re running low on faith you can always borrow someone else’s.
This journey hasn’t been romantic, and I’m still learning to have faith in myself and ask for help when I need it. I’m still suppressing the reflex to put myself down, just so I don’t have to deal with fear and failure head on.
But here is the wonderful, indispensable lesson of the decade: now that I’ve allowed people to believe in me, now that I’ve let their faith rekindle mine, brave and beautiful things are happening.
I’m wide open to another ten years of failures, and to many more beautiful things.

Don’t Do it for Me: 5 Great Benefits of Describing Your Photos

As a long-time supporter of inclusive online spaces, I’ve got plenty of practice asking, begging, pleading, wheedling, entreating, imploring: pretty, pretty please, good people, describe the images you post!
I and fellow visually impaired people have shared help links, posted general PSAs, and asked pointedly for descriptions in countless photo threads. We’ve even argued with each other about whether blind people are morally obligated to set an example (we should at least try, don’t @ me). It’s practically a full-time job, and nobody is having fun here.
By this point, most people with any exposure to the visually impaired community know that describing images is the right, kind, inclusive thing to do. But many of us don’t always do the right thing – or if we do, we don’t do so consistently. After doggedly describing dozens of wedding photos with my very patient husband, I discovered that while the process is a ton of work, it’s rewarding in ways I’d never noticed before. I want you to notice them, too.
To that end, please accept this list of incentives to make images more accessible, which doesn’t include ‘because you just should, damn it’ (again, don’t @ me).


1. You Catch the Small Stuff

I’d gone over my wedding photos before posting them, but crafting alt text demanded that my husband and I scrutinize them more closely. In the process, he (and by extension, I) noticed small, gem-like details we’d originally missed, like a silly expression on someone’s face, or an interesting background object that changed the mood of the shot.
If you’re translating a photo into words, you’ll discover more than the literal contents of the image. A shallow description involves listing the objects in the frame and writing out any text that may appear. A deeper and more useful description means asking yourself what the image is trying to convey. What’s the significance? Why are you sharing it? Which details have you missed? Which memories, conversations, emotions does this analysis inspire? If you’re posting a meme rather than a personal photo, what context or added humour does the image lend to the text?
It sounds like a homework assignment, but it’s really quite fun!

2. You Learn Things

This is perhaps less applicable to a fully sighted persons’ experience, but as a blind person working with someone with vision to create my descriptions, I found myself learning things I’d never thought to ask about. They ranged from the mundane—there was a heart cleverly hidden in one of our wedding signs—to the mind-blowing (my dress had an intricate vine pattern I somehow missed). I also learned that you can see raindrops in photographs, and that mirror images look very cool in pictures for some reason.
The revelations aren’t likely to be overwhelming, but in taking the time to really break a photo down, you’ll occasionally stumble upon exciting information you’d never have thought to seek otherwise. You may also gain insight into what makes a compelling photo.

3. You Get to Be Creative

Not everyone relishes playing with words, but describing images is uniquely challenging because it demands that we find alternative ways to express visual elements. Even if you’re posting something as simple as a nature scene, cute kitten photo or promotional poster, dreaming up descriptions encourages you to stretch creatively, especially if you want your visually impaired audience to have roughly the same experience your sighted audience would.
I knew, for example, that sighted people would laugh at goofy photos showing the mingled joy and anxiety on our faces as we ran to the limo through torrential rain. We wanted our blind friends to share in the humour of such formally dressed people looking so silly and yet, so happy that no amount of rain could dampen their joy. To do that, we had to move beyond a utilitarian description like “wedding party runs through rain,” and take the time to describe the interplay of the serious occasion, the comic interruption, and the radiant happiness underpinning it all. Our efforts were so successful that numerous blind friends approached me to thank me for providing such engaging descriptions. Where they’d normally skip right by someone’s wedding photos, a lot of people took the time to slow down and enjoy mine. That may not be enough, in itself, to sway you, but gratitude is a lovely perk, don’t you think?
Besides, writing captivating descriptions is more fun than it sounds.

4. You Make Your Content Easier to Find

Let’s say you’re not posting ravishing shots of my rain-splattered face (easy there, I’m attached). Let’s suppose you’re posting material to your website or your blog or your business Facebook page. You want people to find you, which means you’re doing everything you can to improve search engine optimization. You’re using brief, descriptive page titles and body copy that’s dense with keywords. You’re ensuring your material matches what people are likely to search for, and you’re even buying ad space to make yourself more attractive to search engine algorithms.
Why not take it a step further? Add alt text to your images, and give people yet another way to find you. Alt text descriptions improve SEO, and it won’t cost you a dime. Plus, it helps blind people give you their money and share your content with the world. Who says you can’t be a good citizen and boost your brand at the same time?

5. You Avoid Hassel

When you choose not to describe your photos, you risk people like me sliding into your DMs or plunging into your comment sections with our alt text evangelism. Most of us are nice about it, admirably nice given how often it comes up, but who wants to hammer out slapdash descriptions on the fly because some rando named Meagan keeps bugging you? Not you!
I jest, but I can’t stress this enough: I frequently lack essential info because it was buried in an image, and that means wasting my time (and yours) trying to figure out what I’ve missed. If the description is there to begin with, even a basic one, everyone wins.


Go on. Appreciate your images on a deeper level. Learn new things. Make more money. Gain more followers.
More importantly, feel really good about yourself, because you are helping make the web a better place, one accessible image at a time.
Do the right thing. Describe your photos.

Dreaming of a Quiet Christmas

Last Christmas, I gave you my—

Okay, let’s try that again, sorry.

Last Christmas, my family did something we’d never done before: We skipped the boisterous Christmas Eve crowds and had a quiet evening at home. My nephew had been born just a few days previously, and it didn’t make sense to hit the Christmas party circuit just yet. The six of us lounged around watching movies, playing board games, holding the sleepy baby, and petting the cat.

We could have been making merry with a few dozen relatives, surrounded by noise and general jollity. We could’ve juggled three conversations at once, laughing until we ache, but instead we sat quietly together, doing nothing of particular note.

Readers, it was glorious.

At least, it was for me.

It feels silly to admit it, but I didn’t know Christmas could be like this—cozy and intimate and low-key. Besides a few awkward Christmases among an ex’s scattered family, I’d never experienced holiday festivities that weren’t loud and chaotic. I’d never known a Christmas Eve that didn’t involve confusing buffet meals and houses so crowded we were stacked on each other’s laps like sets of folding chairs. The very essence of the holidays was wrapped in full-volume, full-house, full-throttle enjoyment, with a sprinkling of excitable children in the mix.

It was fun, sure, especially when I was a kid. But I’ll admit this too: It was exhausting.

When you can’t see well enough to navigate crowded environments, can’t handle noise well, and can’t “extrovert” for more than a few hours without depleting your energy, the holidays are anything but vacation-like. Generally, I socialize with more people than I can handle, while surrounded by more noise than I can physically tolerate, all while struggling to guard my Christmas spirit and avoid disappointing people with my failure to bring the cheer.
Attending Christmas drinks with colleagues at an incredibly loud pub hammered the point home: I am simply not wired for traditional expressions of celebration. My idea of a good time is a very small (or at least very well-known) group sitting in a familiar, clutter-free space, preferably engaged in loosely structured activities that accommodate my blindness without aggravating my migraines.
Being in a large, crowded, less-familiar space, immersed in the din of conversation, compromises my ability to do fun party things like:

  • grabbing my own food or drinks,
  • initiating conversations with people other than those directly next to me,
  • moving to other areas to see what people are up to,
  • playing common party games that rely on sight, and
  • making my own way to the washroom when I need it.

“Well, Meagan, this is simple,” you say, “because you can just go home when you’re done, right?”

Going home a bit early Is made difficult when most Christmas parties I attend are in rural settings where Uber isn’t available and walking isn’t an option unless I’m okay with a multi-day hike. Of course, since everyone around me seems to love the party atmosphere, no one else is ever ready to go home when I am.

Ever determined to be my best self, I power through, well past my usual tolerance, and end up dealing with increased pain and fatigue over the remainder of the holidays. The spill-over effect from pushing past my endurance at one party will affect my enjoyment of the others, and I come back to work feeling as though I spent my Christmas vacation writing rush speaking notes while deadlines loomed over my shoulder.

Despite adoring my family and being a huge fan of holiday cheer, I find myself worrying about Christmas celebrations with increasing intensity. I won’t be heading home for the holidays for another week, but I’m already feeling tired just thinking about it.

So I’m dreaming of a quieter Christmas. I’m dreaming of a Christmas where I parcel out my social activities more carefully, where I learn to say no to some things so I can say yes to others, and go easier on myself if I’m just too stressed to muster that full-throttle enjoyment I wish I was feeling.
I’m dreaming of managing all this without hurting a single feeling or disappointing a single soul.

I’m dreaming of a holiday that actually feels like one—peaceful as well as joyful, and relaxing as well as merry.

Maybe, with some planning and boundary development and a little bit of courage, I can have a quieter, calmer Christmas that is kind to my body and easy on my poor beleaguered brain.

You know, since I’m dreaming and all.

Guest Post by Elise Johnston: Guide Dog Gaps and Anxious Hopes

For many blind people, the gap between guide dogs is something to be dreaded. Retiring a dog is a devastating life event, especially if it happened earlier than expected.

For Elise Johnston, the early retirement of her second dog was a little more complicated. In theory, getting on a waiting list for a new dog as quickly as possible made perfect sense: Her mobility was drastically curtailed without a dog by her side, and getting repeatedly lost on the way to work was getting old, fast.

And yet, even with all the logic in the world pointing toward ‘new dog,’ Elise found herself frozen, as much by indecision as harsh Canadian winter.


Winter 2019: To Dog or not to Dog

So it’s February and, because I am an unmitigated genius with an IQ almost as big as my shoe size, I have retired my second guide dog early. For the first time in more than 15 years, I am using a white cane on a daily basis.

People ask me about getting another dog, and my frozen Popsicle brain offers up a gloomy “No.”

On the face of it, ‘no dog’ makes no sense whatsoever. It’s February, as I say—February in Alberta. It’s so cold that pipes in a downtown hotel have frozen and burst, turning the surrounding street into a skating rink. I’ve started a job in a new building and am only slightly familiar with the root, which includes a convoluted street crossing, and requires laser-precise positioning to make it onto the correct sidewalk.

Gobs of white ghost poop are piled in drifts over all the tactile landmarks. The wind is singing an off-key lament passed my toke-covered ears, obliterating any sound cues, like the audible signal that marks the crosswalk. Memories of being knocked down by a car, which then stopped directly on top of my foot, flash through my frosted-over brain.

My first guide probably saved my life, not with expert car blocking skills or anything, but because he made navigating university possible, given the lack of orientation and mobility training available where I live. And having university to escape to after high school was unquestionably life-saving.

My second guide gave me the confidence to move out on my own, live independently, and get to all the appointments one needs to get to when one is gender transitioning. You could say he saved my life too.

I love dogs. I love the flapping of their ears when they shake themselves, the thump of their tails on the wall. I love giving tummy rubs and getting kisses. Dog hair is a condiment I have no objection to.

But now, ice-cubed and tearful, after being lost yet again during the coldest February on record, I have big problems with getting another dog.

Spring 2019: What We Don’t Talk About When We Talk About Dogs

You go to a job interview and the first five minutes are spent, not discussing your qualifications, but the life history of the dog that accompanies you.

You walk into the kitchen at work and the coworkers gathered there wish your dog, not you, a good morning.

You retire said dog, and when you switch positions the boss in the new position goes, “Oh dear, where’s your dog?”

A dog is novel, and cute, and lots of people like dogs. You, on the other hand, are an icky blind person.

“I have nothing in common with an icky blind person,” says (insert person). “Better just talk to the dog, or about the dog, or tell stories about my own dog.”

You tell yourself: You’re having so much fun without a dog. Sure you wake up at night and listen for the breathing that should be there. Sure you can only pet your sweaters. Sure it’s much harder for you to go places since you don’t have regular access to mobility training. But being upstaged all the time? Having to deal with incessant questions? Giving one of your best friends a hug and listening to her sneeze for hours because of her allergies? Making friendly with people who are besotted with your dog for no good reason other than its “OMG a dog!”

Also, dogs can be inconvenient at sleepovers. They require attention and extra executive function and vacuuming.
And having a dog, loving a dog, means one day you have to say goodbye, and your heart becomes a chew toy that they’re squeaking, squeaking, and suddenly not squeaking because they’re not responding to the antibiotics for their pneumonia and their cortisol levels are sky-high and your family has asked you what you want to do…

Do you want to get another dog? Really?

Fall 2019: Some Mad Hope (and All the Anxiety)

It’s hard to get a handle on why I submitted my application. Probably it was because one of my best friends has a guide and witnessing their bond and the way they work together gave me hope that things could be different. When I did my home visit with the school I am attending for my new dog, we discussed techniques I had never heard of — simple orientation and mobility stuff that would have made a huge difference working with either of my old guides.

There’s regret now when I think about what might have been possible with my previous dogs. Regret, and a new anxiety about how much I still have to learn. This anxiety piles up on top of the existing anxiety when I think about interacting with people on an exclusively dog-related basis.

Why am I doing this again? Do I like being an anxiety sandwich? Have I surrendered to my fate as auxiliary to a much more adorable creature? Am I using Meagan’s blog as an alternative to talk therapy?

But maybe things really could be different. Third time’s the charm?

Spring 2020: Notes From Elise’s Future Dog

You know what’s relentlessly awesome about being a guide dog? It’s having someone who appreciates everything about you—who endures home interviews and goes on waiting lists and rearranges their life so you can be on their team. It’s knowing someone loves you for your brains and not your body. It’s knowing that, while your handler doesn’t love everything about being with you, it’s all worth it in the end.

Sighted people won’t shut up about how beautiful I am. They’re always going, “Oh look at the beautiful dog!” Nobody except Elise goes: “Seriously why don’t you join MENSA?”

I get to go for lots of walks downtown where there’s always interesting stuff going down, like political marches and half marathons and shady drug deals and gay couples walking their cat. Also also,
Elise knows all these totally-good smelling people who are by default my best friends because they’re her best friends.

The other day I got to meet Elise’s retired guide dog, who is kind of an idiot, and he told me that Elise goes on adventures to hospitals and writing conventions and vegan restaurants, which sound like good fun to me! He also warned me sometimes Elise has trouble getting out of bed or off the couch, in which case it’s my job to pretend like I have to go to the washroom really bad, even if I don’t, or to stick my nose underneath her blanket and give her kisses, especially on her bare feet.

I mean, I was going to be a guide dog anyway, and I think I could have done a lot worse. Elise doesn’t drink or smoke or listen to music at obnoxious volumes. She’s done all the boring university already. I feel like she’s finally kind of sort of got her life unstuck and can focus on the cool.

We’re going to go new places and smell new people and chew on new bones and I’ll probably end up saving her life down the road, just saying.

Life is short and that’s why it makes a difference who we spend it with. Am I right? Am I a good dog?


Looking for more? Check out Elise’s previous guest post on gender transitioning as a blind person: “Smart People, Stupid Questions, and Knowing What We Cannot See.”