Morrison’s Space: A DeafBlind Activist

April 9, 2026

By Morrison

The latest article I published on defining and explaining the importance of CoNavigators is out (can be found under academic articles), and this morning, on my walk to grab a chai latte before starting my day, I found myself feeling unexpectedly anxious. I sat with those emotions as I walked with my worn‑down mobility cane, sweeping along the sidewalk, the tip catching in the cracks every so often… and by the way, have I shared how much I despise sidewalks? I really do. Walking on sidewalks feels like navigating an obstacle course designed by someone who has never used a mobility cane in their life. Every crack, every uneven slab, every sudden dip is just waiting to snag my cane’s tip or trip me. What’s worse – the curb cuts, how they don’t line up evenly with the crosswalk, or there’s not one at all.

As I walked, I kept thinking about the recent post I wrote about traveling without a CoNavigator… the incidents, the close calls, the moments where things could have gone very wrong. My heart started to race. I felt vulnerable. Exposed. Sharing my stories with the world, putting myself out there… it made me wonder how many people read it, will they take the time to read it, take it seriously, how many will actually absorb what I wrote, how many might relate but haven’t spoken about it yet – or they have but it went unheard, silenced, discarded. There’s a particular kind of vulnerability that comes with telling the truth about your lived experience, especially when that truth reveals how unsafe and unsupported the world can be for people like me.

And layered on top of that, I was scouting for a new coffee place – yes, I love scouting for local coffee shops, hoping to find the one that hits the right spot on my taste buds. And no, I still haven’t found one in this city yet. So there I was, walking slowly, at first lost in my thoughts, then vigilantly scanning my surroundings, crossing each block carefully, hoping a car won’t hit me because I didn’t catch it, hoping no one would bother me, hoping I won’t miss any landmarks that would help me find this place. What should have been a short walk felt like it stretched on forever because I realized I was slowing down to avoid missing anything important.

When I finally found the café, it felt like I had overcome something inside myself, but then came the next hurdle: finding the cashier to order my drink. I took my time, scanning the environment, trying to orient myself. I couldn’t find the cashier. Or the barista. I tried to calm myself… just take it slow, take it in, you’ll find it, and eventually I did. I pulled out my phone and typed in my order while the barista waited patiently with a gentle smile. Then I wasn’t sure where to pick up my drink, so I paced a bit, turned back toward where I ordered, and there it was: my chai latte.

I stepped back out with my drink in one hand and my trusty cane in the other, heading toward work. By then, more people were out, and I had to watch out for them, making sure I didn’t bump into anyone, making sure they didn’t bump into me, making sure no one tripped over my cane because so many people these days don’t pay attention. My poor cane has taken a beating from people glued to their phones or running to catch their ride. There’s a slight curve in it now (from a time a person was running and tripped hard on it), which I like to think gives it character. The day I first got my cane… is a story for another time.

But today, after publishing that article, after walking through the city with all these thoughts swirling, questions upon questions  kept echoing in my mind: Why is our community still overlooked? Why are DeafBlind people still pushed to the side, not equitably prioritized, still not truly fought for? When will it be our turn? When will we have laws that protect us, truly protect us, and adequately fund the services we need? What are we NOT doing?

Writing about the essential for CoNavigators felt necessary. Writing about traveling without one felt necessary – to speak truth that’s forever embedded in the internet for what I hope many will read and take into consideration. But walking to get that chai latte this morning reminded me why I wrote those in the first place: because every day, in big and small ways, I am reminded that access is still not guaranteed. Safety is not guaranteed. Dignity is not guaranteed. And until the systems around us change, until states build the programs and protections we need, we will keep having these moments… the racing heart within, the constant and careful scanning, the vulnerability of being “seen” – and STILL not fully supported.

Maybe naming it is part of the work, even if it means naming this over and over again. Maybe telling these stories, even when it makes me anxious, is how we push the conversation forward. Maybe this will capture attention that our community longed for. And maybe someone reading this has lived these moments too and needed to know that they’re not alone. And to that someone, if you have tried sharing your story, your struggles, I feel you. 

When will it be our turn in this long, long line in the word of disabilities? What will it take for us to get ahead in that line?