If it seems like that process would be frustrating, it is. I remember how much easier hiking used to be and mourn the loss of the sighted life I once lived. Climbing is different because it’s always been hard. It wasn’t until after I started to lose my sight that I tied in for the first time at the base of an ice pillar in Wisconsin. When crossing the street was still scary, climbing ice felt like flying. When the snow melted out, I found rock shoes and a sport where I didn’t feel different. If I had the patience and endurance to hang out until I could spy the next hold, I could climb just as hard as my friends. Climbing provided a space where movement was controlled and deliberate, and fear served a purpose. Often, navigating the steep talus trail up to the crag would prove more frustrating than the climbing, where I felt like I was back in control on the vertical plane. Blindness is extraordinarily humbling. Having a space to feel powerful and capable allowed me to rebuild my confidence from zero.

I’ve always struggled to understand the adaptive part of myself; as a partially sighted person, I spend a lot of effort trying to blend in. When the public perception of blindness is binary, concealing my “invisible disability” felt natural. And without the obvious markers of sight loss (e.g. cane or guide dog), it felt dishonest to identify as a blind person.  Me? I was a climber, an engineer. Maybe it’s because of the competent sense of self I had built up before my diagnosis, but I feel guilty burdening those around me with the reality of my struggle.