I taught a kiddo during her third and fourth-grade years who, when asked to do something, would ask, nine out of ten times, “But WHY?”
This wasn’t always rooted in avoidance, although she is human and we were at school, so at times, it understandably was. But at other times, it was legitimate curiosity. Honest bafflement as to why I was asking her to do something which may have seemed, to her, ludicrous, repetitive, tedious, stressful … you pick the adjective. And, I mean, can you blame her? I often wonder why school asks kids to do the many things it asks them to do, in the precise way it insists they must do it.

As I mentioned in some of my Leader Dog posts, working on mobility as a thirty-something made me ask that same “But why?” question from my youth, but with added adult wisdom. And exasperation. And frustration, too, because seriously? WHY!?
I know blind folks personally who really enjoy mobility. Now, to be clear, I do feel like a handful of blind people exaggerate their skills, fake their joy, and subsequently pontificate about the importance and beauty of relentlessly independent travel to put myself and other blind mobility strugglers down. I’m not here for that. But I do actually know and believe the blind folks who cite, with genuine (and charmingly nerdy) enthusiasm, the empowerment and self-determination they enjoy when they puzzle out a new route, city, or trip in a way that feels good to them. Some folks really seem to love jetting out their front door, wandering around with their mobility tools and skills, and seeing (heh) what happens.
I get this. I don’t relate, but I understand. I can imagine that it feels awesome. I believe in that. It’s just so far from my own truth that I’m promptly brought back to my “why” question.
If it doesn’t serve me to struggle my way through a route I don’t know — to use “structured discovery,” as some call it — then why, WHY, would I put myself through it? If I could just as easily take a cab with my Para-Stranded discount, carve out the time to Para-Stranded itself and do work on the way, take Uber or Waymo, ride with a friend and buy them lunch to make up for their driving … why would I not?
I do acknowledge that I have a ton of privilege in this arena. I live in San Francisco, where Para-Transit, though always on its own timeline, is reliable and equitable, charging a flat fare (the same price as the MUNI buses) no matter where in the city you’re going. We’re offered discounted cab fares. Ubers and Waymos are plentiful. I have a sighted partner with a car who often drives and accompanies me places. These are privileges that many blind folks don’t have. Many blind folks, faced with the choice between “wing it” or “don’t go,” are caught between a rock and a hard place, and God do I feel for them. I know how lucky I am. I do. If that were my choice — if I couldn’t get rides and navigate myself to wherever I need to be in a way that works for me — I would feel horribly, terrifyingly stuck. And trapped. And bored. Because, though I’m becoming more and more introverted in my old age, and often stay home rather than go out and socialize, especially in groups or at big, noisy events, I still very much want and need to get out and do things. I often tag along with Martha on errands that have nothing to do with me, just because I like to be out and about … and to be with her, obviously. But I digress, as usual.
Let’s leave out the one very valid answer to my “But why” whining, which is the “You’ll have to do spontaneous, unplanned mobility, because someday, you might be in an area without affordable, feasible access to support, and then you’ll have to figure things out.” Very real, but not applicable to my current situation.
So, as I asked my therapist the other day, I still don’t understand: why would I, Caitlin, force myself to, essentially, self-inflict a dropoff? If, for example, an Uber driver dumps me in the wrong place and is incapable of giving me any useful information (which has happened, several times), what would I gain from pushing myself to conquer the impromptu mission independently, when I’m already in a heightened state of anxiety about the uncertainty of the situation?
When faced with this theoretical situation, I do typically walk around and try to get my bearings. But let’s be real: if someone asks me if I’d like help, I tell them where I’m trying to go and accept a guiding arm, if offered. Let’s also be real: most sighted people aren’t too great at giving clear, calm, informative, relevant verbal directions. And, I’m now learning, crossing a street in San Francisco can land you in a place you didn’t even know existed until that moment. It’s often not as simple as “cross the street at the corner,” and I’m still trying to wrap my head around the many ways street crossings can be so much more complex.
Now, might I flex and ultimately bulk up my proverbial mobility muscles by acclimating myself to the anxiety of wandering around blindly for a few extra minutes? Sure … probably. But again … WHY?
Why is it so often deemed “failure” to accept help? Why is asking for guidance not seen as a valuable tool?
Hannah and Jeffrey give me hope that this is changing. They assured me that asking for information, taking and relying heavily upon my own notes, using my phone, even getting a sighted guide out in the world are all pieces of mobility. Mobility can be, for me, whatever I want or need it to be, in any given situation. Their goal wasn’t independence; it was equipping me with skills and confidence, so I can get myself out of jams. They did that well, and I love that.
I feel more excited and hopeful about working on mobility than I ever have, in my whole life. And yet, I still don’t have a good answer to my multi-faceted “why” question.
For me — just for me, because, of course, mileage will vary for other blind folks — mobility often just feels so … hard. And scary. Tiptoeing, sometimes, toward painful, upsetting, and isolating. For me, it magnifies blindness, pun intended, if and when I think about it too much, or work at it for too long.

In rehashing the drop-off activity with my therapist, I explained that it wasn’t just the scenario itself that rattled me. It was the actual, visceral feeling the setup evoked: that close-to-tears, better-not-stand-still, tight-throated, dry-mouthed, tense-bodied, panicked feeling.
I hadn’t experienced that precise feeling since I’d done drop-offs in my youth … and the horror attached to being mired in that feeling for the first time in so long only exacerbated the feeling.
When asked about how I navigated college as a blind person, I self-deprecatingly explain that I never went anywhere alone … and I didn’t. Disability vans, classmates, a cappella friends, house-mates, sighted guides employed by the campus’s Disability Resource Center, RA’S and TA’S, student proctors and workers … you name it, I found and leaned on them.
In grad school, my dad drilled the routes to my classes with me, as well as the area of campus where I lived for a semester. I navigated independently that semester and got a great confidence boost from it. But living on-campus was too expensive, which pushed me to take Para-Transit. Negotiating their pick-ups and drop-offs on a sprawling college campus was challenging and frustrating, but I adapted.
I’ve always framed these practices as weaknesses, although, of late, I do demand, often defensively, to know why people can’t see the resourcefulness and tenacity behind them. Planning your whole life around how you’re going to get from point A to point B, perhaps especially if point A and point B are so close together that anyone would be going significantly out of their way to support you, can feel embarrassing, pathetic, and shameful. But my people were, are, and continue to be kind and understanding, by and large. I find other ways to give back and to be a good, supportive friend so that, most of the time, I don’t feel overly burdensome.
My therapist surprised me by pointing out that all my planning and scheduling and thinking ahead served a crucial purpose, albeit, perhaps, a subconscious one. It protected me from that anxiety-riddled, claustrophobic “mobility drop-off” feeling.
I had a lot of other things to be anxious about during college and grad school, even if I couldn’t have put names to all of them. On some level, maybe I knew that stacking mobility on top of that preexisting, precarious pile of struggles would have been too much. So I just … didn’t.
And now that I have some more bandwidth, and I’m working on mobility … but in my own way. And not to project independence. If perceived independence for the sighted gaze is the answer to the “why” — and, sadly, I believe it is, for many people — then it’s not MY answer.
I’m working on fostering a little more mobility confidence in service of myself, whatever that looks or feels like for me … full stop.
I appreciated my therapist so much when she pointed out, “The drop-off was just pretend, and you got through it, even if you felt that it didn’t go well. But in real life, you’ve created a system that works for you. You’ve made structures for yourself that feel good. And in real life, you’re doing well.”
I’ll be keeping that reminder close when mobility, as it inevitably does, starts to feel like too much.