You Make Me Brave
Growing up, I was my grandpa Revalee’s favorite. He was a salesman by trade but an incredible artist on the side, and I wanted to be just like him—an artist, a designer. Halfway through high school, I came home one day to devastating news: my mother told me that Grandpa Revalee had taken his own life. I had a photo of him and me from when I was a child—he was standing behind me with his hand on my shoulder. I turned it into a painting, a dark family portrait of sorts, with Satan standing behind my grandfather, his hand on his shoulder, the angel of death to his right, and an angel in white robes pinned to the floor under Satan's foot. I hung that painting on my bedroom wall for almost ten years. I was pretty messed up.
At 20, I was diagnosed with retinitis pigmentosa, a condition my mother also has. I was determined to become a designer anyway. Watching her, I saw how she lost her driver’s license and her career in her late 30s. I marked my 40th birthday as the end of the world as I knew it. In my 30s, I started struggling with night driving, and eventually, I lost my license altogether. Driving had symbolized freedom for me, and my career was deeply tied to my sense of self.
I began to see my grandfather’s suicide as a kind of “falling on his sword,” and I started viewing my own struggles through the same lens. Sleepless nights became common, and for the first time, I found myself contemplating suicide, wondering if I could face blindness without meaningful work. As a designer, so much of my world—what I loved, experienced, and created—was visual, including the tools I relied on. Each shift in my vision felt like something essential was being taken from me, striking a blow to my ego. Looking back, I can almost hear my inner voice saying, "If I’m going down, we’re all going down."
When my son Leo was born, I thought back to my grandpa Revalee and how deeply his loss affected me. I couldn’t do that to my son. I had to find a way forward. One day, while rocking Leo outside, I broke down, tears streaming down my face as I held him. He looked up at me as if to say, "What’s wrong, Daddy?" That was the first time I gave him a “life isn’t fair” speech. But in that moment, I made him a promise: that when he grows up, the world will be different—a place where people of all abilities have equal access to opportunity.
As I entered adulthood, I noticed that most people “work to live,” content with the typical eight-hour day. But those who embrace a “live to work” mindset and put in extra effort often see their dedication pay off, setting them apart. As my eyesight worsened, I felt that competitive edge slipping away. Determined to prove what people with disabilities are capable of, I pushed myself harder and harder, breaking barriers through sheer willpower. As my intensity increased, it became difficult to manage.
For over ten years, I labored in the mines of inaccessible digital environments. As my eyesight worsened, my challenges in accessing the tools and spaces I needed to work or communicate grew. Through various support groups I joined, I came to understand that these issues were widespread and largely unresolved for many in the blindness community.
I noticed that the most successful path for someone with late-onset blindness was to build a strong foundation in education and career while still young and sighted. After a decade with a company, it becomes harder for them to let you go due to blindness. With my late start, I had to find another way.
Then came an epiphany: maybe the journey was the destination. My path had woven through blind entrepreneurship, academia, and corporate America. I had walked a thousand miles in many different pairs of sneakers, being one of just three disability-owned businesses in my state and the first blind graduate of the Master of Design program. Every setback had taught me something invaluable.
As a product designer, I understood firsthand how digital environments were failing users with disabilities. Imagining solutions not yet on the page was something I had been training for my entire professional life. I made it through the eye of the needle, successfully reinventing myself—but it had to be on my terms, using my own equipment, accessibility tools, and focusing on work that matched my abilities.
If you’re reading this and don’t have a disability but have enjoyed technologies like email, text messaging, audiobooks, dictation, or text-to-speech software, you’ve already benefited from innovations designed for people with disabilities. And if you’ve ever experienced the frustration of a poor user experience or constant software updates, you’ve had a small taste of the challenges we face every day.
Disability is commonly defined in two ways: medical and social. The medical perspective frames disability as an individual impairment or limitation within a person’s body, focusing on the condition as something internal to the individual. For example, I have a condition called retinitis pigmentosa. In contrast, the social perspective views disability as a result of societal barriers that restrict full participation, emphasizing that the "problem" lies in how society is designed for inclusion, not within the person with the impairment. This social definition is increasingly true today.
We know this because accessibility exists today where money can be made, creating a bit of a dilemma. All Americans are entitled to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. These rights are inalienable, meaning they cannot be taken or even freely given away. Which begs the question: can an American reasonably pursue happiness if digital environments and the tools of economic participation are not inclusive?
In 2017, my design firm was one of only three disability-owned business enterprises (DOBE) in my entire state. Meanwhile, approximately 5,000 blind individuals were working in menial jobs, earning below minimum wage for tasks no one else wanted to do. This is fully legal in 29 states under section 14(c) of the Department of Labor.
I recently listened to a friend in blindness share her story, and it moved me to tears. She described earning less than half the minimum wage for tasks like packing sponges into boxes. Whenever she became proficient, she was reassigned to a different role, ensuring she remained in low-paying positions. While I recognize the undeniable privilege of my own story, I felt a deep and powerful resonance with hers.
It’s easy to become cynical, and at times, the struggles can feel deeply personal. Historically, cultural traditions have often placed the blame on individuals with disabilities—suggesting we might have done something in a past life to “deserve our challenges.” This mindset enables naked discrimination, echoes of ableism, and allows for more subtle forms of discouragement to flourish.
For me, however, these struggles—and the opportunities they bring—offer a chance for growth, not just for ourselves, but to leave the world better than we found it. It’s about transmuting suffering into meaning and purpose. Whether we get one shot at life or many, I believe it makes sense to live fully and raise the moments before us.
For nearly ten years, I lived in a state of constant fight-or-flight, my body flooded with stress hormones that, over time, became toxic. Since 2015, my health has significantly declined, and my eyesight has deteriorated more rapidly than expected for my age. Today, I am almost entirely blind in my central vision and rely on my near-central (eccentric) vision, struggling to read at 20/400 with significant effort.
For those navigating life in 'the country of the blind,' every story can serve as either a warning or an example. My aim in sharing this is to offer a glimpse of both, so that with one’s own discernment and an understanding of their unique context and abilities, A path forward can be found. Today, I move through the world differently. I give myself space to pause when I feel overwhelmed, still setting ambitious goals but with a kindness toward myself if I don’t reach them.
Over the past three years, I’ve committed deeply to my yoga practice, noticing that regular practice helps me build a reservoir of calm, centered energy. When I’m well-grounded, I can pause, take a breath, and regain my steadiness when feeling overwhelmed.
In the past two years, I’ve invested a lifetime of knowledge and experience into researching the tools and technologies that blind professionals rely on in the workplace. I recently submitted my first white paper for publication, with more in development, and founded Accessible.3, a nonprofit organization dedicated to promoting inclusion in digital environments. A commitment to doubling the full-year, full-time employment rate for blind and visually impaired Americans from 36% to 70% by 2045.
Thank you to all my friends, family and teachers. None of this would have been possible without the incredible support of those who believed in me and guided me along the way. I am profoundly grateful for your trust; it has been humbling, and I promise that your faith in my journey is well-placed.
To my friends in blindness, my gratitude runs deep, you make me brave. Your vivid and unfiltered honesty has been a source of courage, inspiring me to share my story, advocate for systemic changes needed for true inclusion, and creating an optimistic future where the next generation can thrive.