Shan­non Madar

This week­end, the world is dressed in red. Hearts, ros­es, de­c­la­ra­tions of love. Time­lines filled with cou­ple pho­tos and care­ful­ly cho­sen cap­tions. Valen­tine’s Day has a way of mag­ni­fy­ing ro­mance, or the ab­sence of it.

But for blind and vi­su­al­ly im­paired women, love doesn’t al­ways look like flow­ers or can­dlelit din­ners. Some­times, it looks like bound­aries. Some­times it looks like walk­ing away and choos­ing your­self first.

Hon­est­ly, dat­ing is trash on a good day. Whether you can see or not, men have a way of dis­ap­point­ing you with full con­fi­dence. But be­ing a blind woman adds a spe­cial kind of chaos. You’re not just nav­i­gat­ing red flags; you have to lis­ten for them, sense them, feel them in­stead of see­ing them. And trust me, those red flags still wave loud and clear.

You might ex­pect that with­in the blind and vi­su­al­ly im­paired com­mu­ni­ty, there’d be more un­der­stand­ing, more re­spect, maybe a lit­tle less “let me touch your face so I can see what you look like.” Spoil­er: they’re not just try­ing to see. And here in Trinidad, in our blind com­mu­ni­ty, the men bring their own spe­cial kind of prob­lem.

Some of these men want to be your man by lunchtime and your hus­band by sun­set, even when all you said was “Hi.” The au­dac­i­ty is ex­haust­ing. You sit next to them at an event, and sud­den­ly there’s a hand on your arm, your shoul­der, inch­es from your face. “I’m just try­ing to see what you look like,” they say, as if ask­ing for con­sent is op­tion­al be­cause both of you can’t see each oth­er. But let’s be clear. Blind­ness doesn’t erase your right to bod­i­ly au­ton­o­my. You don’t get a free pass to touch me just be­cause I might not see it com­ing. That’s not con­nec­tion, that’s dis­re­spect.

Then there’s the as­sump­tion that if you’re sin­gle and blind, you must be look­ing for a man, any man. Like you’re sit­ting around, wait­ing to be claimed like a princess in an old Dis­ney movie.

You say you’re sin­gle, and sud­den­ly you’re ex­pect­ed to ex­plain your­self. You’re told you should be grate­ful for any at­ten­tion you get. And if you’re not? You’re la­belled “too picky,” or “act­ing bet­ter than you are,” or the worst one: “You blind and still picky?”

Yes, I am. Be­cause I know my worth, even if you don’t.

In dat­ing, we’re ei­ther in­vis­i­ble or on dis­play. There’s no mid­dle ground. Some men don’t see you at all. They talk around you, over you, to the per­son next to you, as if you’re frag­ile, in­con­ve­nient, or not worth the ef­fort. Oth­ers fix­ate on your blind­ness like it’s the most fas­ci­nat­ing thing about you. “You’re blind? Wow, that’s kind of sexy.” Sir, what ex­act­ly is sexy about my dis­abil­i­ty? Be spe­cif­ic.

There have been days I want­ed to wear a sign that says: “Yes, I’m blind. No, that doesn’t mean I’m touch­able, in­spi­ra­tional, or yours.”

That said, good ones do ex­ist. A friend of mine mar­ried a man from our com­mu­ni­ty who nev­er made her feel un­com­fort­able or act­ed like her body was his to ac­cess. He took the time to un­der­stand her, to learn her bound­aries, and to love her the right way. Still, some men ques­tion her mar­riage, as if a blind woman’s hap­pi­ness needs their ap­proval.

I met a man like that too, some­one who re­al­ly saw me. He didn’t treat my blind­ness like a prob­lem or a project. He didn’t lead with pity or pride. He asked how I want­ed to be sup­port­ed and ac­tu­al­ly lis­tened. When what we were do­ing didn’t work, we tried again. But those mo­ments are rare, and they nev­er came from the guy who tried to touch my face five min­utes af­ter meet­ing me.

An­oth­er woman I spoke to summed it up per­fect­ly: she said men, sight­ed or not, of­ten see blind­ness as a bar­gain­ing chip. As if she should set­tle for who­ev­er shows up be­cause “at least some­one wants her.”

She said, “I want to be seen as a per­son, not an op­por­tu­ni­ty.” And that hit me hard.

I want more of that kind of love, mu­tu­al, safe, re­spect­ful. Con­ver­sa­tions where I don’t have to ex­plain why bound­aries mat­ter. Con­nec­tions that don’t feel like char­i­ty. But I’m not des­per­ate for it. I’m not per­form­ing soft­ness to get it. I’m not wait­ing around.

Some peo­ple will say, “She’s just an­gry.” Maybe I am. I’m an­gry be­cause peo­ple act like I shouldn’t have the right to be. Be­cause be­ing blind shouldn’t mean I have to set­tle. I’m an­gry be­cause too many of us are told to take what we can get, to smile through dis­re­spect, and to stay qui­et about what makes us feel un­safe, es­pe­cial­ly if the man is al­so blind, be­cause “he un­der­stands,” right? Ex­cept he doesn’t. And I’m done pre­tend­ing he does.

This isn’t bit­ter­ness. It’s clar­i­ty. It’s me choos­ing my­self be­fore any­one else tries to rewrite my stan­dards.

I’m not half a per­son wait­ing to be com­plet­ed. I’m not less of a woman be­cause I can’t see. And I’m def­i­nite­ly not less de­serv­ing of love just be­cause the dat­ing scene is chaot­ic. Blind women know what we want and if that makes us picky, good. Be­cause if the on­ly op­tions are men who over­step, overtalk, and over­es­ti­mate their im­por­tance in my life, then I’ll stay sin­gle. Peace­ful­ly.

I’ve got me. And I don’t need to see some­one to know when they’re not good for me.

This Valen­tine’s Day, I’m re­mind­ed that love isn’t about who shows up the fastest or who touch­es you first. It’s about who re­spects you enough to ask. It’s about who lis­tens. Who is will­ing to learn. Who sees you, not as a project, not as a com­pro­mise, not as an op­por­tu­ni­ty but as a whole per­son.

And the right love? It doesn’t rush you. It doesn’t pres­sure you. It doesn’t re­quire you to shrink.

It meets you where you stand, whole al­ready. And some­times if you’re lucky? It finds you when you least ex­pect it.

This col­umn is sup­plied in con­junc­tion with the T&T Blind Wel­fare As­so­ci­a­tion

Head­quar­ters: 118 Duke Street, Port-of-Spain, Trinidad

Email: ttb­wa1914@gmail.com

Phone: (868) 624-4675

What­sApp: (868) 395-3086