Morrison’s Space: A DeafBlind Activist

---

What Travel Really Feels Like When You’re DeafBlind: A Journey Most People Don’t Know

April 8, 2026

By Morrison

You’re both deaf and blind – meaning you cannot hear AND cannot see. In this case, you’re deaf and you are legally blind. Instead of being able to hear and see, you feel things, and rely on touch more because everything around is restricted to a small pinhole of vision that is foggy, blurry at times.

You wake up early, ready to take on the day. The first task isn’t work, it’s getting to work. Three hours, two transfers, and a full day waiting on the other side.

You gather your things, take a breath, and step outside. As someone who is both deaf and blind, travel isn’t just travel. It’s planning, vigilance, and courage. But you’ve done this before. You know the routine.

At the train station, you make your way to the platform and stand at one end so the walk to your next connection will be shorter. You feel the rumble of the train approaching. People shift around you. Doors hiss open somewhere along the platform.

You find a door, it’s closed. You move to the next, it’s also closed. You follow the movement of the crowd, hoping they’re heading toward an open one. You sweep your cane, feel the edge of the platform, and finally locate a doorway. You step inside, relieved. Now as you sit, you begin counting stops in your head. Thankfully, this train ends at your destination. No guessing. No hoping you didn’t miss it.

When the train slows and stops, you step off and follow the flow of people again. You wonder who they are: workers, students, people heading to the same terminal as you. You can’t see them clearly, but you feel their presence.

Then comes the next barrier: the ticket gate.

You know you need to scan your card, but where? You hold your bag in one hand, your cane in the other, trying to balance everything while feeling for the scanner. You tap your card. Nothing. No tactile feedback, no vibration, no raised indicator. You sweep your cane to check if the gate opened. Still nothing. You try again. Suddenly the plastic gate shifts open. Relief mixes with frustration as you walk through, pocketing your card and trying to reorient yourself.

Now you’re in a wide, echoing, empty space. Bright. Cold. No tactile markers. No raised signs. No tactile maps. Just… nothing. You turn slowly, searching for any clue that might point you toward the bus terminal.

You try to find someone who works here. You approach a figure, unsure if they’re staff. Anxiety rises. You walk away. You return to the gates, hoping someone official is nearby. You sweep your cane along the gates, then use the back of your hand to feel for a uniform. You touch a jacket.

You pull out your phone, open your communication app, and type: “Do you work here?” You tap the mic icon so they can respond. Instead, they take your phone. You grab it back, point to the mic, and say, “Speak.” “Yes,” they say. “You need help?” You type: “Yes. I’m trying to find the bus terminal,” then tap the mic again. They speak: “Go outside and walk to your left, then pass the garage, then take your next left. Then take a right, use the elevator to get to the third floor…”

You try to memorize the directions. You step outside. You follow them as best you can. Out you go, sweeping your cane, tapping along the building, then sidewalk. You feel a long gap. Probably the garage. You keep going until you find a building again.

Eventually, you find the elevator. Finally. But it only goes to the second floor. You step out, confused. No tactile markers. No tactile signage. Just another hallway. Maybe they meant the second floor. You walk forward, sweeping your cane. You reach escalators. So there is a third floor. Why didn’t the elevator go there? You take the escalator up, carefully. At the top, you sense someone nearby, a security guard. You ask for help finding the bus terminal and making sure you’re at the right gate. They say it’s not their job, but they’ll find someone. You wait.

Someone arrives. Their speech is muffled and unclear. You grab your phone again and tap the mic. “… you need help to get your bus? I can take you.” Then they grab your cane to move it. You say no. They grab your arm to “guide” you. A sudden pull – jarring, disorienting. You follow – more like being dragged along, tense, hoping you’re being led safely. You reach the bus area. The person guiding you lifts your bag without asking and places it somewhere you can’t see. You try to ask where, but they’re already gone.

You step onto the bus, sweeping your cane, trying to find your seat. No raised numbers. No braille. No tactile indicators. Just identical rows and the pressure of people waiting behind you. You ask someone nearby for help. They grab your wrist and tug you toward a seat. You sit, heart racing, trying to settle in for the next leg of the journey.

What feels like hours later, the bus arrives. You stand, gather your things, and step off. A hand grabs your arm and your cane without warning to “help” you down the steps. You pull back, startled, trying to regain your sense of space.

Now comes the final stretch: finding your rideshare.

You open the app, request a car, and step into the open air. You stand there, hoping the driver will find you, hoping they won’t grab you, hoping they won’t try to talk to you when you can’t hear them, hoping the car doesn’t reek of smoke or cologne, hoping you’re getting into the right vehicle and not someone else’s. You hold your phone tightly, checking the license plate by touch or by asking someone nearby, hoping they’re trustworthy. You open the door cautiously. You sit. You exhale.

By the time you reach work, you’re mentally and emotionally drained. Three hours of navigating barriers, miscommunication, unexpected touches, inaccessible spaces, and constant vigilance. And now you’re expected to begin an eight‑hour workday as if the morning wasn’t a marathon of stress.

You straighten your shoulders. You take another breath. You walk inside. Because you have to. Because your employer would not allow you to work remotely.

Then once you made it through the work day, it’s a hustle to travel back home…