Acceptance isn’t instant but a journey

When you realise everything you knew is changing, people often expect you to be fine with it instantly. But acceptance isn’t something that happens overnight — it’s a journey, full of highs and lows. It’s like navigating a maze: eventually, you make it to the other side, but first you hit dead ends, sharp turns, and confusing paths. I speak from experience.

I was diagnosed with Usher Syndrome at six. My parents never kept it from me. They explained what it meant — that my sight would get worse, that one day I might go completely blind. I was encouraged to ask questions. But as a child, how do you fully understand something that hasn’t begun to affect you? How do you grasp the weight of it before it’s real?

For the longest time, I didn’t.

I genuinely thought everyone saw like I did — that no one could see in the dark. It wasn’t until a Year Six residential trip to PGL that I realised how wrong I was. One evening, I was walking with my best friend and a teaching assistant. Suddenly, I realised we’d been left behind. My classmates were far ahead, running around, laughing in the distance. I couldn’t see them. I could only hear them. I felt left out. But I hid it. I smiled. I laughed. My TA guided me, holding a torch to light the path, and I remember the shock settling in:

Everyone else can see in the dark.
I thought, “That’s not fair.”

My sight deteriorated slowly, so it was hard to notice — until it got dark. For years, I was walking a line between hiding how bad it was and not fully realising it myself. I was just a kid, carrying something too big for a child to carry.

At school, I had modifications — an iPad, larger text, coloured paper — but I never told a teacher directly, “I can’t see this.” I was stubborn. I’d struggle through, desperate to stay in control. I’d find a workaround, or pretend I was keeping up.

My hearing loss, on the other hand, had been easier to accept. Yes, I struggled in loud places, but I’d never known anything different. I didn’t know what I was missing. Calling out in class, “Roger’s muted, Miss!” if a teacher forgot to unmute — that was easy. My friends would join in. And if I needed an extra arm to help me balance in PE, I had no hesitation in asking.

But sight loss? That was different.
That was harder.

My journey toward acceptance started to shift after COVID restrictions eased. I began attending residential camps run by British Blind Sport and VICTA.

Anna on the last night of VICTA summer camp 2023

I met other young people with visual impairments. I learned that adapting didn’t mean giving up. In fact, it made you stronger — by being true to your needs, not letting other people’s perceptions shape your life.

Then came the summer of 2022.
My first time at USHThis Summer Camp.

It was different. Even though no one used a cane, and no one needed a guide, it didn’t mean they hadn’t adapted. In our evening disUSH sessions, we shared our own stories — our paths to acceptance. Hearing them helped me realise that I wasn’t alone.

I remember one night at the campfire, thinking:
“Yes. I should use my cane.”

It was the first time all week I truly felt that. I realised it wasn’t a sign of weakness. I was surrounded by others on similar journeys, and I knew there wouldn’t be judgment.

The path has been long, emotional, and ongoing — but over the last few years, I’ve truly accepted the reality:

That I could lose my sight.

But why should I let that control me?
Why not embrace it?

Acceptance isn’t instant.
It’s not a switch you flick or a single moment of clarity that fixes everything.
It’s a gradual shift in how you see yourself.

For me, that shift happened when I stopped pretending — and started living free.