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

April 8, 2026 (morning)

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…

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Commutes Invite Danger Without Design

Further reflections and additional real life stories…

April 8, 2026 (evening)

By Morrison

For many DeafBlind people, travel is not simply a commute. It is a constant negotiation with environments that rely almost entirely on sight and sound. Every step requires problem‑solving, vigilance, and emotional labor that most people never have to think about.

This isn’t about inconvenience. It’s about access, safety, autonomy, and dignity.

Here’s a story for you: 

A few years ago, I was in Washington, D.C. for a conference. I was navigating the train system on my own, making my way through Union Station, a place that, for a DeafBlind person, feels like standing in the middle of what feels like a storm. So much movement. So much stimulation. People rushing in every direction. Feeling disconnected, disoriented, and lost. Nonetheless, I headed down the escalator toward the platform, and it felt like I was descending into an underground culprit of danger. When I stepped off, I paused to get my bearings, trying to orient myself toward my connecting train. I finally located what I thought was the platform and walked toward it… not realizing there were train tracks between where I stood and where I needed to go.

I nearly stepped off the platform!

My mobility cane hit the drop‑off just in time. If I hadn’t felt that edge of the platform, if I had taken one more step, I would have fallen onto the tracks. And the train pulled in seconds later. That moment still lives in my mind and body. That split second between life and death. That reminder that one inaccessible station can become a fatal hazard for someone like me. If I hadn’t held myself back, I wouldn’t be here, typing this story.

And here’s another one you: 

On the train home one evening, I hopped onto a car without knowing which doors would open at my stop. I counted the stops in my head, preparing to get off. When the train slowed and came to a halt, I stood up and moved toward the door, but it was closed.

I panicked.

I walked to the next car – another closed door! Now I was really freaking out. I asked people, bystanders, around me for help, but no one moved. They just stared, annoyed, unwilling to be bothered. I rushed to the next car and yelled, “Please, someone help me get off this train!” Finally, one kind bystander (yes, there was actually a kind person on that entire train) stepped aside and gently tapped me so I could find their shoulder to grab ahold of. I made it off, shaken, but I made it.

But it happened again…

Same situation. Same closed doors. Same panic. This time, I ran straight into the conductor as he was closing the door. The train started to take off. I grabbed my phone and typed… told him this was not accessible, that I was supposed to get off and had no way to know which doors would open as a DeafBlind person. How was I supposed to know only two doors on the entire train would open? I was frantic as I was trying to communicate with him that I needed to get off that stop.  

He didn’t want to hear it. But I persisted, and so he got on the radio. The train halted. It backed up. And he let me off. I was bewildered, exhausted, anxious, and overwhelmed with emotions. It had been a long day at work, and I just wanted to get home, like anyone else.

These stories are proof of what happens when “accessibility” never moves beyond the bare minimum, and the truth reveals itself, and now it’s just a matter of bringing that truth forward to alarm for change. They show how architects and engineers default to the simplest, cheapest fixes, staying safely within the lines. They rarely dare to color outside those lines, because doing so is framed as a financial burden rather than the burden of someone’s life. Where is the genuine care when we design these spaces?

Accessibility has lost its meaning, and many people cannot grasp anything beyond the bare minimum. To create a space that is distinct, imaginative, and truly accessible would require incorporating everything we’ve been talking about. Imagine a platform with a raised barrier, a protective barricade that prevents people like myself from falling onto the tracks. When the train arrives, that barrier lowers and becomes a ramp, eliminating the gap entirely – no more “mind the gap” nonsense.

On the train, instead of relying on audio‑only PSAs or the sometimes‑working LCD screens with scrolling text, imagine a haptic (vibrotactile) system built into every seat. Each stop has its own simple vibration pattern, a tactile code you can feel on the armrest or side panel. Pair that with raised markers and/or braille indicating the upcoming stop. And why not add a small screen for Deaf riders where someone signs the announcements in ASL, alongside tactile text or braille options for DeafBlind riders? Give people choices… not one narrow path to information, but multiple ways to access it based on how they actually navigate the world.

This is what it looks like to design with us, not around us. Hire us.