Dear long cane - I'm sorry for pretending I didn't need you.

Today is World Sight Day, a day devoted to raising awareness of visual impairment, blindness, and the issues faced by the sight loss community. As someone living with a visual impairment, there are many issues that affect me on a daily basis, and I'm nearly always ready and willing to discuss these issues until I'm blue in the face. One of these issues used to be my long cane. Like most visually impaired children, I was given mobility training growing up, and part of that involved learning how to use a long cane. I needed it, after all. Long canes like mine usually feature a rolling ball, which allows blind and visually impaired people to locate steps and obstacles before they become potentially hazardous. But for the longest time I had the most toxic, unhealthy and painful relationship with the long cane. It sounds a bit daft to say that I had a toxic relationship with an inanimate object made from aluminium, but that's exactly what it was.

Picture shows Carys standing in a bus station holding a long white cane.

For the first few years of secondary school, I was told that I had to use my cane during school hours. This policy was obviously put in place both for my own safety and my own personal benefit. Everyone's end goal was to give me the skills I needed to be as independent as possible, and part of that involved being able to get around safely with a mobility aid that I - a blind teenager - obviously needed. But like most teenagers, I wanted to fit in, and in my eyes, using a mobility aid made me stand out. Quite simply, I didn't want to be disabled. I wanted to be seen as capable, normal and able. To me, being seen with a mobility aid would lead to me being perceived as less capable, and ultimately less 'normal'. I just wanted to be like my classmates, and I didn't have the self-awareness needed to recognise that I was ultimately cutting my nose off to spite my face, as my mother used to say. So, in a truly typical display of angst, I rebelled. I didn't use my cane at school, because in my head I didn't need it. I was given warnings and then punishment for not using it, but quite frankly it didn't make a blind bit of difference. In fact, I often took liberties by dragging the cane limply on the floor behind me, in some kind of weird petulant protest. I despised the cane and everything it symbolised. Eventually the staff at my school grew bored of my defiance and allowed me to have my own way. I wasn't forced to use my cane, and was left to my own devices. I have a little bit of vision, so I managed better than anyone expected me to. By that point I had built up an incredibly detailed mental map of the school, and knew the layout like the back of my hand. But I'd be a barefaced liar if I sat here and said that I didn't need a cane - because I did. I managed because I struggled, and unfortunately that kind of toxicity carried on into my adult years.

I wouldn't really call myself a 'people person', and it didn't take me long to realise that even as an adult, being out in public with a cane drew unwanted attention that I struggled to deal with. It felt like that folding cluster of aluminium drew unwanted conversation and unsolicited assistance like a moth to a flame, and letting go of the resentment I had over that was (and still is) an incredibly difficult thing to do. So I carried on only using my cane when it was absolutely vital and opting for sighted guidance whenever I went out with someone I knew. I carried on struggling and putting myself at risk, all because I was too belligerent and stubborn to use something that would make my life so much easier. Eventually, my attitude started to change. I was becoming more and more involved in the disability community, which ultimately forced me to address my own internalised ableism. I was engaging and learning about a community that I'd spent most of my life refusing to accept that I was a part of, and it was liberating.

I'm now incredibly embarrassed to have once held so much resentment, hatred and anger over something that was designed to keep me safe. I spent so long wanting to be perceived as capable, without realising that using a cane actually makes me more capable. I can now understand that even though being seen with a cane still attracts unwanted attention, having people around me know that I'm visually impaired isn't always a bad thing. It means that drivers are a little more likely to slow down if they see me crossing a road, and it means that service providers are likely to make my life easier without me even having to ask. While i used to view the long cane as an enemy that was holding me back, I'm now learning to see it for what it is: a tool that makes my life easier. Some days are harder than others, and I still sometimes find these od toxic thoughts returning to my mind, but I'm as committed to strengthening my relationship with my cane as I am to my boyfriend. It's a process, and I'm trying my best. Rebelling and not using my cane used to make me feel so powerful, like I had so much control over my disability. I liked the sense of autonomy that came from being belligerent. Now, I feel powerful when I use my cane, because I'm actually so much more confident than I was without it. The best part? I still feel that same sense of control and autonomy that I used to feel when I didn't use the cane. Accepting that I need to use a mobility aid has been a key part in me truly accepting and embracing my disability, and I really resent the fact that this  shift in my mindset didn't happen sooner.

I wouldn't go as far as to say I love my cane, but I definitely don't hate it any more. It's a start, right?