“How are you active?”

My husband and I recently returned from a honeymoon filled with hiking, canoeing, and adventuring. During our trip, we became friendly with another traveling couple. At some point in conversation my blindness came up, to which I was asked, “out of curiosity, how are you active? You mentioned you enjoy running and hiking, but you also just said you can’t see…”


The lay public often is unaware of both the barriers faced when pursuing an active lifestyle and the accommodations and alternative sports available for disabled athletes. As a recreational runner and fitness class attendee, I certainly cannot speak to the vast ways in which people with disabilities accommodate their training or sports. Instead, I offer my experience as an example for how I learned to accommodate my vision loss in pursuit of fitness.


I started going to the gym in college. I wasn't an athlete growing up, so I couldn’t fall back on muscle memory. Instead, I embraced being a novice. I asked friends who regularly used cardio machines to show me how they worked. I learned to feel for the buttons I needed: start, stop, increase incline. I listened for the beeps to signal changes in my settings. After I felt comfortable with cardio, I began asking friends to describe how to use various weight machines. I approached exercise with open curiosity and a willingness to ask questions. If I couldn’t figure out how a machine worked with poking, prodding, and adjusting, I asked someone to show me. I made countless novice mistakes. I found the machines most accessible to me and abandoned others. One feeble attempt at a stair master led to a nasty fall and deterred me indefinitely. Despite embarrassing moments, I developed a sustainable system; I memorized where my favorite equipment was and how to use it. I couldn’t see the numbers on weights, so each time I lifted a few and settled on some that seemed adequately challenging. Though I was intimated at first, over time the gym became a space for me to develop my body’s strength rather than focus on its limitations.


About a year after discovering the gym, I decided to try running. I started by run/walking indoors, alternating between the treadmill and track. On the track, I relied on both my limited sight and the sounds around me to guide me. When it wasn’t too noisy, I could easily hear where the machines were or if there were other people near me. After months on the track, I decided to try heading outside. My sight affords me the ability to see sidewalks and paths, but I was fearful of getting lost or hit by a car. I chose to run in familiar areas with little traffic. I ran during daylight hours when roads were least populated. I only crossed the street at stop signs. At first, I would circle the same few blocks. As I ran more, I learned to listen to my surroundings to keep myself safe. Over time, I gained confidence in my ability to run safely outdoors in familiar areas with minimal traffic.


I’ve since had the privilege to take my running to more settings. I still employ the same strategies. I minimize crossing the street or running near traffic. I only run in unfamiliar settings with someone sighted. For the last couple years, I’ve run at the lake near my apartment. Even on the protected path, I often find it too crowded to safely and enjoyably run alone. I limit my runs to times when the path is less busy. I choose when and where I run outdoors strategically. Still, I end up tripping a lot. Despite the occasional scrapes and bruises, I've fallen - literally - in love with running outside because it makes me feel capable and independent. Though I personally haven’t used a running guide before, I fully intend to take advantage of a valuable resource, United in Stride, that connects blind and visually impaired runners to local sighted guides


When I moved to California seven years ago, I began hiking. I started off with easy paved paths. Over time, I became more adventurous, going on steeper and narrower trails. I always brought my little adventure dog, Milo. Hiking with him by my side provided me with physical cues about the terrain. I could feel based on the movement of his leash how steep the incline was. He would avoid puddles, branches, and logs, so I follow his lead. Even with Milo by my side, I never hike alone. I always go with someone who can read maps and make sure we’re on the right trail. I often use hiking poles to feel the terrain. And I still rely on others’ to point out major obstacles in the path and to provide occasional step-by-step guidance: big rock on left, step down on right, go over tree root . I only hike with people I trust who are willing to go at my pace.


To answer the question posed: the way I am active is by doing what works for me. How I choose to exercise looks different from someone who is able-bodied. I am deliberate about pursuing the forms of movement that are enjoyable and accessible for me. I am able to run, hike, and do yoga by being patient, accepting, and compassionate towards myself and my changing abilities and needs.

Embracing Body Diversity

Amidst my morning commute, I scanned to crowded train car for handles. I noticed a nearby women who was especially tall, with her head hovering an inch below the train car’s ceiling. I saw that her patterned sweater, gathered around her hunched shoulders. Noticing her posture, I wondered if she often tried to shrink herself to hide her height.


Another women weaved through the crowded car and approached her, saying, “Excuse me, I wanted to share how beautiful you are.” The confident, strong female voice came from another particularly tall tattooed woman. The woman in the patterned sweater was soft-spoken. She thanked the tattooed woman.


The tattooed woman launched into a defense of tall women. She sought to connect by commenting on “how everybody stares” and “the pros and cons at concerts.” All the while, the women in the patterned sweater smiled, nodded, and offered brief, albeit quiet, words of agreement and understanding.


The woman in the patterned sweater asked the tattooed woman about her confidence. I sensed she felt uncomfortable in her own skin and wanted desperately to understand how this tattooed woman walked with her shoulders pulled back and her head tilted high. The tattooed woman shared that its been an evolution, and that much of her confidence is in part due to her relationship with a “petite butch woman.”


The tattooed woman explained how she and her petite girlfriend commiserated about being stared at, being bullied, and feeling as though their bodies were not good enough. Despite differing in height and femininity, these women shared the same body shame. The tattooed woman explained that is was through this relationship that she gained self-acceptance and the appreciation of body diversity.


The woman in the patterned sweater reached her stop. The two tall women exchanged affirmations of each other’s beauty and parted ways.


I was moved by the intimacy and vulnerability expressed during this commute conversation. I wondered if the tattooed woman’s story offered inoculation against the shame I sensed in the woman in the patterned sweater. I was saddened by how much she seemed to try to hide herself, shrinking into her sweater and speaking in a whisper. As my mind wandered, imagining these women’s lives, I reflected on the ubiquitousness. Their body shame is the same as my body shame.


We all, especially women, and particularly women in larger or disabled bodies, feel critical of our bodies. We feel not thin enough,, not tall enough, not young enough, not toned enough, not graceful enough. For those of us with chronic health conditions and disabilities, we often feel frustrated that our bodies don’t work well enough, can’t do what we want them to do, or don’t have stamina.


And yet, look what our bodies do for us. Every body offers us life. Whether sighted or blind, hearing or deaf, tall or short, feminine or masculine, white or black, our body offers us the privilege of living on this earth. Of course that body is limited, as all bodies are. Our bodies, with their limitations, warrant compassion rather than criticism.


Beyond feeling gratitude and compassion for diverse bodies, I was also struck by the power of perspective when witnessing this conversation. These two women of comparable height had opposing reactions. The woman in the patterned sweater wanted to hide herself and minimize her height. The tattooed woman walked confidently, proud of her height and eager to compliment this trait in others. We can see the same feature as a strength and a weakness. We have the capacity to change how we relate to our bodies, and to others'. As an outsider, I easily admired both of these women for their unique and beautiful bodies. While society may try and convince us otherwise, we can see beauty, value, and strength in every body..

Update & Amazing Podcast Episode

I've got a lot of half-written posts that I'll finally have the bandwidth to wrap up and publish here, so expect more from me soon! In the meantime, I highly encourage listening to this podcast titled "What's It Like to Navigate the Bay Area While Blind?" This provides a look (ha, more like a listen) into how people with vision loss navigate the visual world, whether it's picking clothes to wear or commuting to work. This piece beautifully depicts how we can learn to use senses other than vision to gain information about our surroundings.

My Journey Radically Accepting My Vision Loss

Radical acceptance refers to the profound and genuine embrace of the present moment. Seemingly simple, this concept has been one I’ve been wrestling with for a while. Intellectually, I understand the meaning of radical acceptance and frequently teach it to my clients. Yet, I’m still on my journey to fully accept and embrace the diverse implications of my visual disability.

I began my journey of radical acceptance after being diagnosed with progressive vision loss 12 years ago. Early in this process, I leaned into the belief that I would never see again. Friends, family, and strangers have been quick to chime in that science is boundless and a cure is inevitable. Though I know this sentiment comes from a place of warmth and a desire to provide hope, I frankly have always believed I will never see again. I needed to believe I would never see again, or the uncertain and prolonged hope would feel desperate and cruel. Plus, wishing to have a different physical body than my own suggests there’s something wrong with me, and it’s far more beneficial to feel grateful and appreciative of what I have.

Despite this literal acceptance, it’s been harder for me to engage in moment by moment radical acceptance. it has been immensely difficult to radically accept that my life is and will likely continue to be hard due to my vision loss. Being unable to see and living in a predominately visual world means stressful and painful moments are inevitable. Embarrassing moments like getting lost in familiar areas, failing to recognize friends and family, dropping and running into things, are painful. Lonely moments, like missing out on information, being unable to relate to others’ visual experiences, and lacking the capacity to share social exchanges through eye contact or facial expressions with others are painful. Infuriating moments like failing to receive necessary accommodations, having my disability status questioned, and encountering microaggressions and ableist language, are painful. When I respond to these daily challenges by putting on a smile and pretending I’m not experiencing pain, I am not radically accepting the circumstances of my life. Acting as though I can do it all as an independent, confident, ambitious disabled woman is not the entire story, and denying the pain, need for help, and rampant discrimination creates further suffering. I suffer by telling myself to simply work harder. I suffer by fantasizing about what life would be like if I could drive myself or read standard print. I suffer by expecting I can do anything a sighted person can do.

Radical acceptance means fully letting go of desire to change the present moment. I’m gradually learning how liberating, albeit difficult, this radical acceptance can be. I am working on radically accepting that many things are more challenging and time-consuming for me; I can’t do a lot of things; and I do many things differently. I have to work within the systems I’m in to gain the support I need, and sometimes systems fail. It has taken me a long time to radically accept that I need to adjust my expectations to accommodate my vision loss, and yet, radically accepting the implications of my vision loss on my life enables me to better plan and cope.

My radical acceptance does not preclude me from fighting for change. Instead, I am making more informed decisions by radically accepting my circumstances. I advocate for improved policies and protection for people with disabilities. I voice my needs for accommodations. I continue to follow the medical advancements that may lead to a cure. I am only radically accepting the conditions of the present moment.

My journey learning to radically accept my vision loss and its implications has made me profoundly empathetic with my clients who struggle with this concept. Radical acceptance is challenging, because it’s painful. It requires leaning in fully to the circumstances of the present moment. This transparency with our circumstances hurts. And at the same time, it’s releasing. It means I can let go of wanting for something other than what I have. I am hopeful that my journey, albeit incomplete, will help me work with others on the journey of facing and radically accepting ourselves.

The Risk of Sexual Assault as a Disabled Woman

 Since this blog is called voicing vulnerability, I figured it’s about time I shed light on one of the aspects of having a disability that makes me feel most vulnerable.

Like many of my feminine-presenting friends, I learned as a teen to walk home with my keys between my knuckles. We walked in packs when we could. We developed strategies for staying safe when we travelled alone. I’ve heard all the advice – be vigilant, observe your surroundings, cross the street or enter a building if you’re suspicious.

Unfortunately for me as a woman with low vision, much of this advice depends on eyesight. So, I’ve sought other means of protecting myself, including walking with a look of fierce determination, talking on the phone, carrying pepper spray, and keenly observing as best I can for anything suspicious.

Sexual assault against women is pervasive and tragic. Disabled women are even more at risk, with estimates indicating women with disabilities are three times more likely to be sexually assaulted. In their piece investigating sexual assault in women with intellectual disabilities, NPR found that women with intellectual disabilities are more than seven times more likely to be assaulted than those without disabilities. According to Disability Justice, 83% of women with disabilities will be sexually assaulted in their lifetime, yet only 3% of sexual abuse involving women with intellectual disabilities is reported.

The high rates of sexual assault against women with disabilities may come as a surprise, given the pervasive social tendency to desexualize disability. People with disabilities are portrayed as unattractive, undesirable, and broken. Yet, women with disabilities are especially vulnerable to sexual assault. This seems to be in part due to lacking senses or abilities that could protect against these assaults. Increased rates of sexual assault against women may also be based on the view that women with disabilities are weak and incapable of protest. It’s assumed that we won’t speak out against the injustice; and if we do, no one will listen anyway.

The risk of sexual assault makes me vulnerable. I am afraid when I travel alone. I'm afraid when unfamiliar people stop me on the street. I am afraid I will be taken advantage of because my disability makes me seem like an easy target. I am afraid I will be violently or sexually assaulted and won't be believed. I am afraid even if I am believed, I will not be able to hold a perpetrator accountable because I won't have detailed visual descriptions.

This fear is absolutely justified; being a woman with a disability objectively makes me more vulnerable. To quote Molly Burke’s Vice piece about dating while blind, “I have to be careful.” I am at greater risk of sexual assault and harassment and need to take additional precautions to protect myself as best I can. Despite my vigilance, I, like all too many of my friends with disabilities, have had multiple encounters with sexual assault. Within the past year alone I’ve had at least three public encounters, including inappropriate physical contact and verbal harassment, including being grabbed, screamed at, and followed. I don’t know whether these incidents would have occurred if I did not have low vision. Could I have noticed subtle signs of danger earlier? Would I have been able to escape sooner? Or, would they have felt entitled to treat me this way if I weren’t disabled? 

No woman, with or without sight, deserves unwanted sexual attention. It is never the victim’s fault for being the target of sexual assault. Nonetheless, we live in a society that makes us, as victims, question and blame ourselves. Systemic and structural inequalities silence women from reporting sexual assault, and all too often this silencing is amplified for women with marginalized identities, such as disability. I am so grateful for the momentum behind #MeToo, and I commend the bravery of the women who have shared their stories to expose the scope of this issue. And yet there is so much more nuance and complexity to the power structures that enable and dismiss sexual assault. Let's keep telling our stories and voicing our vulnerabilities.