Summary

A blind mother reflects on her journey through loss of sight, identity, and motherhood, ultimately finding strength in her enduring self.

Abstract

Sirena, a visually impaired woman, recounts her transformation from a young girl with fading vision to a mother who has redefined her identity beyond physical appearances. Despite the challenges of blindness and societal perceptions, she finds solace and purpose in her roles as a caregiver to children and as a guide dog handler. Her narrative is one of resilience, as she navigates the complexities of motherhood, the pain of personal mistakes, and the struggle to maintain her sense of self amidst a tumultuous relationship with her daughter's father, who diminishes her role to a mere genetic contributor. Sirena's story is a testament to the power of self-acceptance and the fluidity of identity.

Opinions

Sirena views her blindness not just as a loss of sight but as a profound change in her self-perception and how others perceive her.
She believes that love and ability can transcend visual impairment, as demonstrated by her nurturing relationships with children and her guide dog.
Sirena reflects on her early struggles with guide dog handling, acknowledging her lack of patience and emotional maturity, and recognizes the growth that came from these challenges.
She feels a deep sense of injustice and hurt when her identity as a mother is reduced to a biological role by her daughter's father, emphasizing the importance of names and recognition in one's identity.
Sirena concludes that identities are not fixed but evolve, and that while certain aspects of her identity (

From Light To Darkness, “Mommy” To “Your Mother” A Blind Mom’s Power Of Invisibility

I Was Sirena

(Photo supplied by author.)This portrait captures a candid moment. Seated facing the camera, Sirena’s smile exudes distinct delight. Her auburn hair cascades over her shoulders. The lighting is natural and soft, highlighting the texture and color of her tresses. Sirena wears a grey V-neck shirt featuring a Celtic knot intertwined with pink hearts. The design is thought-provoking, with the question “Identity?” printed in a casual yet bold font, inviting onlookers to ponder the concept of self-identity. The framing of the photograph is close-up, focusing on Sirena, and allowing her personality to shine as the photo’s focal point. The background’s soft, gradient blend of pink and muted gray hues creates a tranquil and dreamy atmosphere, complementing the warmth of Sirena’s expression and the introspective theme suggested by her top. The warmest colors highlight Sirena’s face and shoulders, suggesting one who remains illuminated despite the less forgiving hues nearby.

The first thing I lost was my face.

It faded into the steamed glass fog my vision was becoming as cataracts in my fourteen-year-old eyes sought to claim what little sight remained to me. I looked into a mirror every day and watched myself be erased.

My dimpled smile transformed from curved lips and white teeth to the feeling of muscles tightening in a way that suddenly felt foreign and false. My voice, disjointed from my countenance, now felt ghost-like when a glance toward a mirror could no longer affirm it still came from my lips. Logic broke away from perception, and for over a year, I floated like a phantom in a body I could no longer see.

I was visually impaired.

No.

I was blind.

The taste of tears wasn’t something I ever noticed until they fell from eyes I could no longer see. There were oceans inside me, and I cried them all where no one could use their sight against my lack of it.

“Sirena. Sirena. I have dark brown hair. I have dark brown eyes. I have olive skin. I have a heart-shaped face. Sirena. Sirena.”

The words were the mantra to my fading. I’d repeat them to myself so I could remember who I was. Who would I become without a visual identity in a world where visuals are assigned such decisive significance? When my face was gone, what would take its place?

I Was The Blind Girl

As the perception of my abilities faded, I chafed against the shrinking of my world. Freedom was once found flying through the neighborhood on the seat of a bicycle. Now, freedom was walking through my mother’s childcare without feeling the parents’ eyes tracking my every footfall lest I tread on one of their babies.

Only the babies knew that love isn’t a language of the eyes. Mine were the arms babies reached for when they wanted comfort. Mine was the voice that built dreams out of lullabies. Before they knew what learning was, I taught them I was able, and they taught me I was worthy.

I was mommy?

Not then.

But one day, I knew I would be.

I Was The Dog Mom

Black paws came before tiny hands. I held my first harness handle before I held my first infant.

The babies in the childcare above were too young to stress me out. There was a healthy dose of mama reality I didn’t expect, and when a living thing was placed in my care, I was in free fall like a boulder from an airplane.

Dog mom, child mom — both versions will give you gray hair!

I could have been a better guide dog handler at twenty-four. I didn’t have the patience. I didn’t have the compassion, even though I had the love. I didn’t have the emotional maturity to realize I was still too much a child.

There were days when I shouted at my guide dog in frustration when he made a mistake on a route. I exercised no self-control over my temper and showed him no grace, and only in hindsight did I recognize how deeply it damaged our bond.

My dog shut down in response, which only fueled my frustration. With light stabbing my eyes from all sides, so bright in the Florida afternoon it was like knives scraping away at what little visual perception remained to me, I could only see his faults, and not that mine had brought us to that point. Sweat mingled with tears on my face as cars rushed by, and the median held us prisoner in a cement cell of my own making.

I was lost.

I was stranded.

I was wrong.

So what did that make me? I wasn’t the person I thought I would be when I first touched a guiding harness.

I thought I could do it all, and be right every time. In the end, that belief empowered me. It also caused me years of suffering.

Ultimately, loss, mistakes, and one black dog’s sensitive heart taught me more about compassion than I ever thought I’d learn. It didn’t prevent me from choosing the wrong man to have a child with, but it was the first step on a ladder fraught with rungs of lessons learned.

I’m sorry you wound up being my trial child, Tony-Bone.

I was mommy?

Almost. Not quite.

I Was “Mommy”

“If you’re not going to eat the grapes,” my daughter’s father snapped at her, “bring them upstairs to your mother.”

My identity as Rose’s mommy always filled me with joy. I had a name, I had a purpose attached to that name, and she knew me by it when her father spoke to her.

Birthday balloons lose air, flowers wilt, summer ends and a man’s degeneration into misery comes at the cost of my name.

There’s a primal wound in the theft of a name. Mother. Genetic contributor. When stripped down to my mere biological association in front of my daughter, I stand naked and unseen, robbed of an identity I thought could never be shattered.

My sight is gone.

My face is gone.

My name is gone.

I Was, I Am

There’s a truth about identities I’m only just learning.

They’re not static.

My sight is gone, but I’ll never lose vision.

My face is gone, but my personality remains.

My name is gone, but only if I let him take it from me.

Who are you today, reader?

I am Sirena.