What Resilience Actually Looks Like on an Ordinary Tuesday

Usher Syndrome Awareness Day — 19 September 2026

When people talk about resilience, they often picture the dramatic moments.

They picture someone standing on a stage, completing an enormous challenge or succeeding despite everything placed in their way. Resilience becomes something visible: a powerful speech, a finish line or an achievement that can be photographed and shared.

Sometimes resilience does look like that.

But most of mine happens on an ordinary Tuesday.

It begins before I have even left the house. I make sure my cochlear implant processors are charged and that I have the technology I will need for the day. I check that my phone and other devices are accessible. I lay out my outfit not only so that everything coordinates, but also so that each item is easy to find when I need it.

None of this looks particularly remarkable from the outside. It is simply preparation. However, when you live with Usher syndrome, preparation can be the difference between a day that feels manageable and one that uses all your energy before it has properly begun.

Usher syndrome is a genetic condition which affects hearing, vision and, for some of us, balance. I was born profoundly deaf and use bilateral cochlear implants. My sight has gradually reduced to a very small central field, and I also experience night blindness, glare and difficulty adjusting between different lighting conditions. My balance is affected too.

Those three things do not take turns. They overlap throughout every ordinary day.

Crossing a busy space may mean listening carefully while trying to locate what is happening through a narrow field of vision. Following a conversation can depend on lighting, background noise, where people are standing and whether I can connect my hearing technology. Travelling somewhere new may involve checking the route in advance, looking at photographs of the entrance and allowing extra time in case I miss a sign or need help finding the right place.

That is what resilience often looks like for me: planning ahead so that I can take part.

It is using high contrast and magnification before I begin struggling, rather than waiting until the words become impossible to read. It is using my white cane even when I know the route. It is asking someone to move into better lighting, repeat a question or communicate with me in a different way. It is choosing a familiar meal on a particularly tiring day because identifying ingredients and preparing food safely also requires concentration.

It is understanding that independence does not mean doing everything without support.

The right support gives me more independence, not less. A white cane, accessible technology, clear communication and careful planning do not represent failure. They are the tools and strategies that allow me to study, work, travel, volunteer and enjoy the things that matter to me.

Resilience is sometimes spoken about as though it means never finding something difficult. I do not think that is true.

There are days when Usher syndrome is frustrating. There are situations I cannot solve simply by being positive or trying harder. Sometimes the lighting is awful, the environment is inaccessible or I am exhausted from concentrating. Sometimes resilience means changing the plan. Sometimes it means asking for help. Sometimes it means resting rather than forcing myself through something just to prove that I can.

Rest is not giving up. Neither is admitting that something is difficult.

The quiet work behind an ordinary day is easy to miss. Other people may see me arrive somewhere independently without seeing the route planning that happened beforehand. They may see me take part in a conversation without noticing the technology, positioning and concentration making it possible. They may see the finished piece of work without knowing how many accessibility settings, adjustments and breaks sat behind it.

That does not mean every Tuesday is a struggle. Much of this preparation has become part of my routine, and many days are filled with the same ordinary things as anyone else’s: studying, answering messages, working on a project, talking to friends and deciding what to have for dinner.

That is exactly the point.

Living with Usher syndrome is not only about the biggest challenges or achievements. It is also about building a life in the everyday moments—adapting, planning, learning what works and continuing to show up as myself.

For Usher Syndrome Awareness Day, I want awareness to include that quieter reality. Not just the moments that look inspiring from the outside, but the thought, energy and problem-solving that often remain unseen.

Most resilience does not happen on stages.

It happens on Tuesdays.