As a woman born blind, I’ve spent my life navigating a world designed for the sighted. Through it all, my parents stood unflinchingly by my side. This Father’s Day, during Men’s Mental Health Awareness Month, I’ve been thinking about my dad—and the quiet emotional weight he carried while raising a child with a disability.
Being a father is never easy. But raising a blind daughter brings its own unique challenges, ones that often go unspoken. Father’s Day isn’t just about celebrating my dad’s love and dedication; it’s a moment to honour his quiet resilience and to recognise that fathers like him deserve more space to talk about their mental health.
Growing up, I knew my father loved me deeply. But I didn’t fully understand the emotional effort it took to raise a blind child in a sighted world until I became an adult. My dad wasn’t trained for this. He adapted though, sometimes awkwardly, sometimes slowly, but always with an open heart. I remember him guiding me through unfamiliar places, helping me learn to use a white cane, and even trying to teach me how to ride a bike. He tried to make everything feel normal, even when I could sense he was unsure of what to do.
It wasn’t just about helping me succeed. It was about learning to be emotionally present for a daughter who needed him to see life differently.
Now, I understand how draining that must have been. Raising a blind child is both physically demanding and emotionally complex. My dad had to balance protecting me with giving me the independence to grow. He was expected to be the steady one, the strong one, the traditional image of masculinity. But what happens when the “strong one” feels overwhelmed, uncertain, or emotionally exhausted?
My father was always there. But I now see there were likely moments when he felt inadequate or afraid. Moments when he didn’t have answers. We often recognise the visible labour of parenting a child with a disability, guiding them through crowds, helping with everyday tasks, but rarely do we acknowledge the emotional labour. And for men, that labour is usually carried in silence.
Men’s mental health, particularly fathers’ mental health, is still too often ignored. Society tells men not to cry, not to show vulnerability. For my dad, that meant never admitting when things were hard. I wonder now: who was there for him when he needed support? Who did he talk to when he felt unsure or drained?
We put immense pressure on fathers to be rocks, protectors, and providers. But beneath that silence is a heavy emotional cost. Fathers of children with disabilities often carry an invisible weight—one the world doesn’t ask about.
I think often about my dad’s emotional journey. While my mom managed many of the day-to-day logistics, my father wrestled with his own questions: Am I doing enough? Am I doing this right? He worked hard to give me the tools I needed—from adaptive tech for school to helping me understand the world around me. But when did he get to ask for help? When did he get to admit he was tired?
And this isn’t just the story of sighted fathers. Blind fathers face similar—and often more underestimated—struggles. They’re expected to be strong and capable, too, but the world questions their abilities simply because of their blindness. That constant need to prove oneself adds another emotional layer to parenting.
Whether blind or sighted, fathers are under enormous pressure to perform physically, emotionally, and socially without much room to express vulnerability. That silence leads to stress, isolation, and burnout.
That’s why Father’s Day and Men’s Mental Health Awareness Month matter. They give us a chance not just to celebrate fathers, but to ask how they’re really doing. To honour not just their strength, but their humanity.
This Father’s Day, I’m thinking about my dad. Not just the man who helped me ride a bike or taught me how to use a cane, but the man who carried fear, doubt, and exhaustion, and still showed up every day with love. His quiet emotional labour shaped who I am.
So, let’s move beyond the cards and barbecues. Let’s ask the fathers in our lives how they’re feeling. Let’s give them space to be vulnerable. Let’s remind them they don’t have to be unbreakable to be strong.
Because the strongest thing my father ever did wasn’t pretending to have all the answers. It was loving me through every unknown.
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
