Charlotte discusses how she advocates for herself and feels empowered as a VI person.
The train doors open and I step onto the platform.
A member of Passenger Assistance is waiting for me. I take their arm.
“Where do you need to get to?” they ask.
“Could you help me get a taxi outside the station?” I say.
As I say it, I feel a small clench in my stomach.
I am already preparing myself for the response.
“Are you sure?”
“You do know you can get the Tube?”
Or, “Can you afford that?”
It doesn’t affect me as strongly as it once did, but I still feel that little flash of anxiety. Sometimes embarrassment. Sometimes the uncomfortable feeling that I am being judged for a completely ordinary decision.
I get taxis regularly. I am 25. It is my money and my choice.
And really, that should be enough.
I shouldn’t have to justify choosing something because it makes my life easier, less exhausting or less stressful.
Sighted people make decisions based on convenience all the time. They might get a taxi or a lift because it is quicker, because they are tired or because they simply don’t want to walk.
Those choices are rarely treated as evidence of whether they are capable or independent.
For VI people, it can feel different.
An ordinary choice can suddenly become something you have to explain.
And I think that feeling goes much further back for me.
Growing up blind, I was often made to feel smaller while being expected to manage more.
Sometimes an adult would ask my mum a question about me while I was standing right there. Other times, they would speak to me directly but slow their voice down or change their tone in a way that made me feel much younger than I was.
Yet at the same time, I was expected to be incredibly resilient. I had to speak up for myself, explain what I needed and keep adapting when things didn’t work.
In some ways, that has served me well. I am resilient now, and I know how to advocate for myself.
But developing that resilience so young could also be emotionally draining.
I never really felt off duty
At school, even the parts of the day that were supposed to be a break didn’t always feel like one.
Lunch and break times were the clearest examples.
There were periods when I had very few friends, and at times I don’t think I really had anyone I felt close to at all.
I would sit in lessons checking the time on my BrailleNote Touch, watching lunchtime get closer and wishing the lesson would carry on.
At least in the classroom, I knew where I was meant to be.
At lunchtime, I had to start thinking about where I was going to sit, who I was going to eat with and what I would do if I ended up on my own.
The playground could be overwhelming too. It was noisy, I couldn’t easily work out where people were, and I often had to rely on someone finding me.
I remember one day my teaching assistant went into the canteen queue and asked a group of girls I barely knew if I could sit with them.
I wanted the ground to swallow me up.
She was trying to help, but it actually made the situation much worse.
Break time was also stressful, and that was only 20 minutes.
I remember hiding in a toilet cubicle in the drama block. If someone banged on the door because they needed to use it, I would come out, wash my hands, walk to another block and go into a toilet there until the bell went.
I didn’t always need the toilet.
I just didn’t know where else to go.
Even after school, I struggled to properly switch off.
Homework took me much longer than it took many of my sighted classmates. And when you are a VI young person, there can be another layer on top of the things everyone else is already learning.
We may also be having mobility lessons, learning assistive technology, attending medical appointments, working out how to access things and developing the skills we need to navigate the world more independently.
All of that takes time and energy.
I think that pressure and lack of real downtime had a significant impact on my mental health.
At home, I could be snappy. Sometimes I pushed people away. I wasn’t always an easy person to be around, and I think a lot of that came down to how tired I was.
But underneath the tiredness was something else too.
Fear.
What if I got it wrong?
I have always been a perfectionist, but growing up blind, mistakes could feel as though they carried consequences.
If I bumped into something with my cane, took a wrong turn or got lost, I worried that I had proved I wasn’t capable enough.
And deeper than that was the fear that if I got things wrong, I might lose some of the independence I had worked so hard to gain.
It didn’t even have to be something as big as independent travel.
I remember worrying about something as simple as forgetting my PE kit. For some reason, I had got it into my head that a mistake like that would make adults see me as less organised or less capable.
Because of that, I felt like I had to constantly prove myself.
I remember VI professionals comparing me with other blind students they worked with. Looking back, I think they were trying to encourage me.
But what I heard was: they can do it, so why can’t you?
That made it really hard for me to admit when I was struggling with something.
For example, using a knife and fork is a task I have always found difficult.
Even now, if I am in a restaurant and want a more relaxing meal, I might order something I can eat with a fork or with my fingers. If I need help cutting something up, I can ask friends or family, or even ask the chef to cut something like a steak into smaller pieces before it is served.
That isn’t a problem for me anymore.
As a teenager, though, admitting I couldn’t do something came with a lot of shame.
It was the same when VI professionals asked me about household chores or what I did for myself. I could feel embarrassed admitting that my parents helped me with things.
Looking back now, I think, why?
Parents help their children all the time, whether they are disabled or not. They give them lifts, cook for them, do their washing and help them get organised.
My mum still does my washing, just as she used to do for my older sighted sister when she lived at home.
That doesn’t make me less capable.
It just makes me human.
Because independence is not a competition to see who can struggle the most.
So this Sight Loss Awareness Month, these are the five things I want other blind and VI young people to take from my experience:
1. Independence is your right
It is not a privilege you have to earn.
You do not have to prove that you deserve freedom by doing everything perfectly or without help.
2. Independence is not a destination
There are things I can do now that I couldn’t do a few years ago. There is also still a lot I have to learn.
That is okay.
No matter how old you are, you will keep learning new skills and finding new ways of doing things.
Being independent doesn’t mean being able to do everything.
3. You are allowed to choose the easier option
If something makes your life easier, less stressful or less tiring, that is reason enough to choose it.
You do not have to make life harder just to prove that you can cope.
4. Be proud of yourself
Blind and VI people can feel pressure to be inspirational or to act as though everything is easy.
But having a visual impairment can be tough.
There is no shame in saying that.
You are allowed to struggle. You are allowed to make mistakes. And you should be proud of yourself for everything you are already managing.
5. Speak out
If somebody makes you feel small, judged or ashamed, tell someone you trust.
Talk to another blind or VI person if you can. Sharing experiences can help you realise that you are not the only one feeling this way.
I wish I had spoken about it more when I was younger. The adults around me probably had no idea how much pressure I was carrying or how much some of their words stayed with me.
That includes VI professionals.
They are there to support you and help you become more independent. If the way somebody is working with you leaves you anxious, embarrassed or frightened of getting something wrong, you are allowed to say so.
This is your life, not theirs.
Only you get to decide what works for you
