Everyday, not just December 3

Every December 3, right in the middle of all the parang and Christmas festivities, the International Day of Persons with Disabilities rolls around. For one day, people pause, maybe post something nice on social media, maybe give a nod in conversation. And then the next day? We’re still here, navigating a world that wasn’t built with us in mind.

Being blind isn’t dramatic or tragic. It’s just how we, as blind and visually impaired people, experience life. Most of us move through our days with our canes, our ears, our memory, and yes, sometimes guesswork. We go to work and school, run errands, catch taxis, just living life the only way we know how.

And yet, people still assume my blindness makes me fragile, helpless, or endlessly grateful for “help.” Newsflash: it doesn’t. Boundaries exist, and blindness doesn’t erase them.

The hard part isn’t blindness. It’s the environment. Sidewalks with poles sticking out of nowhere, potholes perfect for storing last week’s rainwater, ramps that feel like small mountains. Cashiers handing my change to someone else.

Restaurant workers talking to the person I’m with instead of to me about what I want to eat. Apps that refuse to read themselves out loud. And the moments that make you laugh just to survive, like a taxi driver swearing he knows exactly where I need to go, circling the block three times, or someone “helping” me by pushing me forward like I’m a shopping cart. You learn to adapt. You find humour in the ridiculousness. Otherwise, you’d scream, and no one wants that drama while waiting for a bus.

Some days, the challenges are subtle but exhausting. Like trying to navigate a bank that refuses to give accessible forms, or a government office where every step feels like a maze.

You become a master of planning, of memorising routes, of listening for cues most people ignore. And you quickly realise that being patient doesn’t always make the world more patient in return.

There’s also a quieter side to this life. Being blind in T&T has taught me resilience, the real kind, not the Instagram version. The kind that comes from showing up every day, navigating obstacles, making your voice heard, and still carving out space for yourself. There’s pride in that. Satisfaction. The streets, the sounds, and the routines, I’ve mapped them in a way no one else has. There’s power in knowing your environment better than anyone expects you to.

Working at the Blind Welfare Association, I see the same struggles mirrored in others. I see people quietly navigating inaccessible buildings, struggling with technology that isn’t designed for them, and politely explaining themselves over and over again. I see the resilience, yes, but I also see the fatigue. And sometimes, I wish the rest of society could see it too. Not for applause, but to understand that these barriers are unnecessary and preventable.

On this International Day of Persons with Disabilities, I don’t want pity or applause. I want accessibility that works. I want spaces that recognise us as part of everyday life, not as a “special case.” I want systems, technology and public spaces that stop acting surprised that blind people are working, living, contributing and moving through this country every day.

I want children who are blind to grow up seeing a world designed for them as much as for anyone else. I want adults who are blind to stop constantly having to justify their independence, their competence, their presence. And I want a society that doesn’t celebrate us once a year, but respects us every day.

I don’t need Trinidad and Tobago to celebrate my disability. I just need it to acknowledge that I exist here. To see that our contributions matter. To understand that our independence is real. That acknowledgement, consistent, everyday acknowledgement would be more than enough.

The truth is simple. Being blind doesn’t mean being broken. It means navigating life differently, yes, but with skill, creativity, humour, and resilience. In my opinion, that’s something worth seeing. Not just for one day in December, but every single day.

And here’s the fact of the matter: disability is not rare. It’s human.

More than a billion people worldwide live with some form of disability.

We are your neighbours, coworkers, friends, teachers, and even customers.

Disability isn’t the real tragedy.

Exclusion is.

This column is supplied in conjunction with the T&T Blind Welfare Association

Headquarters: 118 Duke Street, Port-of-Spain, Trinidad

Email: [email protected]

Phone: (868) 624-4675

WhatsApp: (868) 395-3086