I’m going to talk about something that’s not really political—it’s more personal. But I’m posting it here because I think it’s important for people who aren’t visually impaired to understand where I’m coming from on this.
Last summer, just six days after Josh moved here, we went to my sister Debbie’s wedding. Technically, she’s my stepsister, but I refer to her as my sister now. When we were younger, we were more formal about it—“stepsister” and all that—but at this point in our lives, that part doesn’t matter anymore. She was getting married to her fiancé Ken, and we were all there for the big day.
The wedding was set to start in about 30 minutes. Mom, Dad, Josh, and I had traveled downstate for it. Mom and Dad live in Mesick, Michigan, so we left from there and headed toward the Flint area. More specifically, we went to Flushing, where my sister Rachel lives. Mom dropped us off at Rachel’s house, and we stayed there for a couple of days before the wedding.
Flushing is about 180 miles from Mesick—it’s roughly a three-hour drive depending on traffic. Rachel was kind enough to let us stay at her place while she stayed with her boyfriend. It really helped us out.
The wedding itself took place in Swartz Creek, not too far from where we were staying. The day of the ceremony, Josh and I needed to use the bathroom, so Mom helped us. She got Josh out of the bathroom first, then came to help me. As we were heading back toward the car where Dad was sitting, we were planning to get ready to go into the wedding soon after that. The wedding was outside, if I remember correctly.
As we were walking, we had to go down a step. I was behind Josh, and he was holding onto Mom, so we were kind of moving like a little train. Josh stepped ahead of me and was just a bit in front, so I thought, “I’ll just step out a little and catch up to him.” But I misjudged the step—either it was farther down than I thought or I stepped too far forward—and I fell.
I fell hard. There was gravel at the base of the step—lots of small stones—and when I landed, I slid on that gravel. It made everything worse. Josh told me afterward that he had nearly fallen too when he went down those steps, so it clearly wasn’t just me. The setup was treacherous, and honestly, it still bothers my mom to this day. She remembers how the owner of the wedding venue didn’t seem all that concerned after it happened, and that stuck with her.
As it turned out, I broke my ankle in three places. The official name for the injury is a trimalleolar fracture.
At first, we didn’t know how serious it was. We went to an after-hours clinic, and from there, they sent us to Hurley Hospital in Flint.
Needless to say, I didn’t go to the wedding. Unfortunately, Mom didn’t either—she stayed with us at the hospital. Dad was still able to walk Debbie down the aisle, but he wasn’t doing well at the time. His health had really started to fail. And it turned out, none of us realized how bad it truly was. Just three weeks later, he passed away.
Josh and I spent that night in Hurley Hospital. The next morning, an ambulance brought me back to Traverse City, while Mom and Dad brought Josh back home with them.
Our guide dogs—Lou and Vicki Jo—had stayed behind at Rachel’s house while we were gone. My older sister Beth went over to Rachel’s that night after the wedding and checked on them, made sure they were fed and okay. I’m really grateful she did that, because I was in the hospital and couldn’t have done anything.
Now, this isn’t a “woe is me” story. But it did teach me a lot. When you’re blind and you can’t walk, it presents a very unique kind of challenge—something I had never fully anticipated.
I’ve never been a super sporty person, but I’ve always gotten around well and had pretty good mobility for a blind person. Suddenly, I couldn’t move around at all without a wheelchair. That changed everything.
Josh had only been here for six days when I got hurt.
He had visited before—in the summer of 2022, he came and spent three weeks with me—but he hadn’t been back in almost two years. So when he moved in permanently, he didn’t know where my things were or how I had things set up.
And then suddenly, I was in a wheelchair. I had to use it whenever I did anything, and I had to be very careful not to put weight on my ankle, which was in a splint. I couldn’t help him much at all—and in this small 600-square-foot apartment, that was tough. I felt stuck and frustrated that I couldn’t support him like I wanted to.
You might be wondering, why didn’t I use crutches or a walker like most people do? Well, for sighted people, that often works fine. But it’s very different for someone who’s blind.
This was something I had a hard time getting some people in my life to understand at the time. They didn’t realize just how unsafe it would have been for me to use crutches or a walker without reliable things to hold onto—especially near the toilet, in the kitchen, or around furniture. Balance, for me, isn’t just about muscle—it’s about orientation and spatial awareness, and when you’re blind, that’s a whole different challenge.
I’m not usually a complainer. I’m someone who tends to just figure things out. And for a blind person, I’ve always had pretty decent balance. But I’m still a blind person.
Why is it harder for blind people to use crutches or walkers?
When you’re blind, your vestibular system (the part of your inner ear and brain that controls balance and spatial orientation) is still working—but you lack visual cues that help most people stay upright and oriented. Sighted people constantly use their vision to adjust their posture, notice obstacles, or shift their weight. A blind person can’t do that, so balance becomes more dependent on proprioception (your body’s ability to sense where it is in space) and touch.
Add crutches or a walker into the mix—without vision—and it becomes a minefield. You can’t scan visually to find handholds, adjust for floor textures, or spot trip hazards. If you’re used to moving with a cane or a guide dog, switching to a completely different mobility tool with no visual input is overwhelming and often dangerous.
Poor Josh.
He had to try to make food and manage daily life, even though he had just moved here and wasn’t familiar with my apartment layout. I could help with some things from my wheelchair, but not much—especially in the first few days.
For the first week after my fall, and for the couple of weeks after my surgery, I was in a splint. The first one had some plaster in it, and then after surgery, I was moved to a softer splint. From what I understand, the soft splint was used to accommodate swelling. It was all padding and soft wraps—no hard outer shell like a cast—and it was designed to keep the ankle supported without being too tight.
If Josh had to get down into a cupboard or reach something low, I couldn’t help at all. I could manage the microwave, but that was about it for a while. I didn’t want to use the oven during that time either—at least not until I felt really stable on my feet. I was afraid that pulling out the oven door and leaning in to put something inside could cause me to lose my balance. That could’ve been a disaster, especially with hot food or pans. I didn’t feel safe doing that at all.
I probably didn’t use the oven for two or even three months after the injury, and that was frustrating. I usually do the cooking, so not being able to do that felt really limiting.
Thankfully, I had bought a COSORI 11-in-1 air fryer not long before I got hurt—and honestly, I was so glad I had it. It sat right on the counter where I could reach it easily from my wheelchair. That made a huge difference. I was able to make simple meals with it and feel like I had some independence again. Just having that one appliance helped me feel a little more like myself.
I mentioned my concerns to Mom at one point—about not using the oven—and she agreed with me. She said, “Yeah, I don’t think that would be a good idea,” and I knew she was right. It wasn’t worth the risk.
That whole stretch of time was rough. I fell and broke my ankle on June 1st, 2024, had surgery on June 7th, and then my dad passed away on June 27th. It was one hard thing after another.
By the time my dad passed, I had just gotten my walking boot. We had to go to Mom’s house, which has three steps leading up to the porch. It’s the kind of porch you’d see on a double-wide trailer, because that’s essentially what her house is—but it’s set on a foundation. Those three steps were a serious obstacle for me in my condition. I had to hop up them, and at one point, I actually fell. Thankfully, the boot probably shielded my foot enough to keep it from being reinjured.
It didn’t help that the porch itself was cluttered. Mom stores things on it, and the porch is actually a double-porch—one built onto another because the original wasn’t as stable as she wanted. Navigating that setup while injured and blind wasn’t easy at all.
And poor Josh—he was going through so much. His mom had just died on May 19th, just a week before he moved here on May 26th. Then suddenly, he was taking care of me. He was grieving, adjusting to a brand new place, and trying to help me through a really tough recovery. I know that had to be overwhelming for him.
It was also a lot for my family. Dad had just died, emotions were high, and I wasn’t in a place where I could be very independent. No one said anything, but I could feel it—how stressful everything was. I’m sure it was hard on everyone.
At one point, someone in my family suggested that I slowly start putting weight on my foot and “just see what happens.” But I had been told very clearly not to—and I wasn’t about to go against that. I explained that I wasn’t supposed to be putting any weight on it yet, but they thought I might be fine anyway. I knew they meant well, but I also knew I couldn’t take that kind of risk.
When you’ve had a serious fracture like I did—especially something like a trimalleolar fracture—you have to be extremely careful during healing. Putting weight on the foot too early can cause the bones to shift out of alignment before they’re strong enough to support the body again. That could lead to further injury or even permanent mobility problems. And for someone who’s blind, losing mobility can take away even more independence than it already had.
I was already struggling with not being able to walk, and I just wanted to heal right the first time. So I stuck to the doctor’s instructions exactly—kept my foot elevated, stayed off it completely, and didn’t push it. I knew how important it was to protect my recovery.
Once I was finally cleared to start walking in the boot—about six weeks after surgery—I might’ve overdone it a couple of times. I didn’t mean to, but when you’re trying to heal, it’s easy to misjudge. A couple times I pushed myself too far and paid for it with pain. That’s when I realized I had to back off a little. I didn’t want to go backward. I just wanted to walk again.
As long as it was taking already, I knew a setback would make it even worse—and I didn’t want that. I just wanted to get back to being me again.
But the most difficult thing of all, I think, was taking care of Vicki Jo.
I mean, I couldn’t take her out during that time—obviously.
And poor Josh. He didn’t really know the area yet, and he had to take out both dogs. We had our 89-year-old friend helping us as best he could, but it was just too much for him to manage. And since a lot of people in our complex are elderly, it wasn’t really ideal to ask them for help either.
A couple of people tried here and there, but it didn’t work out consistently, so we just had to cope. Josh had to take the dogs outside, and that’s where he would get turned around—especially when trying to find his way back across the parking lot. He didn’t get lost in the hallway much, but once he got outside, things became harder to navigate.
A few times I tried to go with them in my wheelchair. The hallway from our apartment to the front doors is long, so it was a bit of a trek even getting that far. Once I was outside, I was afraid to go too far because I didn’t feel safe navigating the curbs or rolling over uneven ground. I worried I might tip over or get stuck. So if Josh got turned around, there wasn’t really much I could do to help from where I was.
It was a really rough time for a while. In fact, I probably couldn’t consistently take Vicki Jo out until close to three months after my injury. I had to wait until I was strong enough—because even though guide dogs don’t pull hard, there’s still movement. And when your foot is healing, it doesn’t take much to throw off your balance.
Eventually, I did start taking her out again, but at first, it was painful. I remember how hard it was the first time. But it got easier with time.
Now we’re past those months, thankfully. My ankle still gets stiff sometimes, and I’ll be seeing the orthopedic surgeon one last time in June. When I saw her back in December, she told me there was still some soft tissue healing to do—and that by the time I return in June, however I’m doing then will likely be considered my “new normal.” I went through a couple of months of physical therapy after I was finally able to put weight on my foot again.
It was my right foot, if I haven’t already mentioned that—and that’s the same leg I had knee surgery on back in 2016. So I guess that’s my bad-luck leg.
All of it was hard—physically and emotionally. Josh and I were both grieving, and he was adjusting to life in a new place. We usually get along really well—we almost never argue—but we did have a couple of little fights. Strangely, they didn’t happen during the worst of everything. They happened afterward, when I was starting to walk again and things were easing up a little. I think it was just pent-up stress finally coming to the surface.
Even so, it only happened a couple of times, and we talked through it. Honestly, all couples probably squabble over little things now and then. But we communicated, we apologized, and we moved on—and that’s what mattered.
After my injury, once I was permitted to bear weight, I began relearning to walk using a rollator walker—the type with wheels and a built-in seat. I chose this model because both my parents had used similar ones, and I appreciated the option to sit when needed. However, using the walker was daunting at first.
For blind individuals, balance relies heavily on proprioception (the body’s ability to sense its position) and the vestibular system (which governs balance and spatial orientation). Without visual cues, maintaining equilibrium becomes more challenging. Studies have shown that blind individuals often experience differences in balance control compared to sighted individuals.
Initially, I used the walker sparingly around the house, finding it difficult and somewhat frightening due to these balance challenges. Primarily, I relied on my wheelchair during this period. As I progressed and was able to walk on both feet, the walker became more manageable and instrumental in my recovery journey. This experience underscored the complexities blind individuals face regarding balance, especially during rehabilitation.
I just thought it was important to explain all of this, because it might help people understand an aspect of blindness that even I hadn’t fully considered until my injury. Before this happened, I knew balance was supposed to be more difficult for people who are blind, but I honestly hadn’t thought about it much. I’d always had decent balance, and since I could walk on my own, I didn’t realize just how different it could be under the right—or rather, the wrong—circumstances.
Looking back, I did sprain my ankle once, back in 1993 when I was 21. They gave me crutches, but I barely used them because I was still able to walk. Then, in 2016, I had knee surgery on the same leg and tried crutches again. But both times, they didn’t work well for me. I had a really hard time with them—especially in terms of balance. Still, I managed, and I never had to fully depend on mobility aids.
It wasn’t until this ankle injury in 2024 that I finally understood the full difference. When you truly can’t walk—when you have to rely on devices like wheelchairs or walkers—you start to realize just how much more complicated things are when you’re blind. I finally saw for myself how balance really works differently for us. If I can walk on both feet, I usually have great balance. But in situations like this, it’s a whole different ball game.
This experience taught me a lot. It gave me a whole new perspective—not just on my own body, but on how other blind people must feel in similar circumstances. That’s why I wanted to share it. Hopefully, it helps someone else feel seen or understood—or maybe it helps someone sighted better understand the challenges we face.
Notes from the edge of the system 