Seeing My White Cane as a Badge of Honor.

BY MARIA VAUGHT

Maria is a wife, a new (stay-at-home) mom, and a psychologist. When she isn't performing daily work, you'll find her enjoying all the baby snuggles, spending quality time with her family and friends, reading, or writing. She believes in the power of words and therefore, writes with the desire to inspire. 

It was eight years ago when my optometrist informed me, in a manner so grave but appropriately so, that I have Retinitis Pigmentosa (RP). RP is a degenerative eye disease that gradually leads to severe visual impairment or total blindness with no current cure or treatment to slow down its progression. With full transparency, the optometrist followed this up by stating it is likely I will be legally blind at age forty. He was wrong. I was declared legally blind at age twenty-two. I went to the clinic that day to obtain a waiver for a driver’s license. A major sense of freedom and independence felt so close, but I walked out the door feeling like I had been given a prison sentence instead. 

While my friends were buying new cars and my younger sisters were learning to drive, I was being trained to use a white cane. The moment I walked out of my front door with my trainer and attempted to navigate the streets with my new device, I immediately felt less of a person. For years, I lived in self-consciousness. I despised being seen with the cane, and it did not help that every time I was out in public with it, I would get stares from others, which I frequently noticed given that RP has only (although thankfully) taken my peripheral vision. There were days when I would intentionally leave the cane behind even though I knew I needed it for my own safety. But you see, at that time, when the reality of my condition was so new and I felt so raw and so vulnerable, I was convinced that my white cane was a symbol of my disability. And by extension, it also signified that I was incapable. I was broken. I was incomplete. 

I am not entirely sure when the change happened, but I am certain that the support I received from my husband, my family, my friends, and even some strangers is the root cause of how I feel about my white cane now. I see now that it was more damaging than helpful to hide it and pretend to be “just like everyone else,” when the truth is every time I look up and look at the world around me, I do not, and will likely never, see the same thing as others. At least in my case, not all at once. 

But here is the truth I am living in now. Retinitis Pigmentosa might have inevitably limited some parts of my life. It will continue to do so, there is no denying that. However, I realize that my white cane does not symbolize a loss in autonomy. In fact, it has given me freedom. The freedom to walk without falls, bumps, and bruises. The freedom to live a somewhat normal life. Because of it, I can cross the streets on my own, I can walk through stores, I can visit my neighbors, I can live independently. 

I no longer think that my white cane symbolizes my disability and all the negative connotations that come with it. I am now fully convinced that it symbolizes self-reliance and capability. It promotes my overall autonomy. And I am proud of that. 

Today, I see my white cane as a badge of honor. 

I see my white cane as a reminder of how far I’ve come. Every time I use it, I see a girl who felt despair the day she was diagnosed with RP to someone who is learning to love herself enough by embracing all parts of who she is. Today, there is nothing self-conscious about the cane. It’s simply a little help for my vision. 

I see my white cane as a symbol of growth. Every time I use it, I feel my perspectives on life and the meaning of disabilities shifting. Needing help, whether that may be through a mobility device, an aid of some sort, or any other type of assistance (physical, mental, or emotional), does not make anyone less of a person. Not me, not you, not anyone. At the end of the day, we all have some version of a white cane that guides us through our paths in life. 

I see my white cane as a major accomplishment. By learning to use it and using it, I am free. I am now a person who refused to live a life trapped in my own disability. 

My white cane is a part of me, a part of my story, a part of who I will always be. I’ve always strived to own my story – the good, the bad, the assets, the flaws. Accepting my disability, choosing to see all the positive things it has simultaneously brought to my life, and being brave enough to use my white cane are all steps towards that direction. 

And dear reader, if you find yourself struggling due to a similar situation, please know that you are capable of doing difficult things. Your feelings and concerns are valid. There will always be people in your corner, myself included. So today, find what scares you, what makes you feel trapped, and strive to change those narratives. It might surprise you that the very thing that makes you feel “less” is actually what makes you more you. And you, as you are, are more than enough.