Meet Cathy McAdam

MY JOURNEY AS A BLIND WOMAN

PHOTOS BY @PHOTOSBYKPG

I was born prematurely in 1946, weighing only two pounds and seven ounces. My early days were a battle for survival. The doctors warned my parents that there was a high likelihood I would face significant challenges, particularly with my vision. Due to the high levels of oxygen I was exposed to during my early days in the incubator, my retinas were damaged. At the time, this was a fairly common occurrence, but it is much rarer today, thanks to advances in neonatal care.

As a result, I grew up with very limited vision. In fact, until my late teens, I had only 2% vision in one eye, and around age 18 lost all vision. But I didn’t let that stop me. I went to school with children who had very limited vision, and/or were blind, and I learned to read and write Braille. In hindsight, it was one of the most important tools I could have gained, not only to help me navigate my education but to help me understand my own identity.

I was raised in Detroit, and for most of my life, I’ve lived in a suburb nearby. My journey to school started at age three, which, as it turned out, was critical. Back then, my parents had never raised a child with a disability. This was new ground for them. But early education was something they valued, and they were committed to helping me grow as independently as possible, even though they couldn’t always understand what I was going through. I know now just how important those early years of education were. They gave me the foundation I needed to live a life of self-sufficiency.

I can’t say I remember much of my early childhood. Part of that is due to the fact that, like many families raising a child with a disability, we simply didn’t talk about it much. We didn’t fully acknowledge the extent of my vision loss, and I didn’t want to either. I had just enough vision to convince myself that I wasn’t entirely blind. I learned to write with a magic marker pen, squinting at the page as I traced out letters. I could still look at photos with a magnifier; though I’d squint for hours and see only blurred shape, and I even learned how to ride a bike. Of course, I had a little mishap when I crashed into someone on the street, but those were the kinds of risks I was willing to take.

I stayed in this state of denial for years, until I finally left home and moved away for college. It was only then, when I was alone and had to figure things out on my own, that I came to terms with the full reality of my blindness. I remember realizing that the photos I had looked at all my life weren’t the same as the ones my family members had seen. I couldn’t see the details the way they did. Even when someone was sitting right across from me, I couldn’t make out their features. It was a sobering realization, but it was also an important one.

Denial is a powerful coping mechanism, but it’s costly in the long run. It took me years to confront the fact that I was different, and it wasn’t until I embraced this difference that I truly began to grow. I came to appreciate the uniqueness of my experiences and my perspective. My family, with all their love and support, went through this journey with me. We learned together. My parents never treated me any differently than they did my four siblings. We all had our challenges, but together, we found ways to navigate them.

Now, when I think about how things were back then, I’m grateful for the progress that has been made. Today, there are so many resources for families raising children with disabilities. Like the Michigan Department of Low Incidence Outreach (MDE-LIO) or the Bureau of Services for Blind Persons. They offer a lifeline for families.

During my teenage years, I would describe myself as shy. I struggled with social interactions, in part because I didn’t know how to navigate the world without fully acknowledging my disability. Living away from home on a college campus changed that for me. Being around other students, helped me to gain more confidence in myself. The real turning point came, though, when I got my first Leader Dog. It was through this partnership that I truly began to develop an increased sense of independence and improved mobility.

Today The Leader Dog program also has a camp for teens, which offers even more opportunities for today’s teens. I learned how to be independent in a new way. For the first time, I wasn’t defined by my blindness in the way that I had been for so many years. I was just another teenager, figuring things out. The experience of having a guide dog and building my mobility gave me the confidence I needed to step out into the world and seize my independence.

I graduated from Wayne State University in 1972 with a master’s degree in social work. That was a big accomplishment for me. But finding work after graduation was no easy feat. The job search process was daunting, especially when I had to confront the reality of the job market as someone with a disability. I initially worked at a small inner-city mental health clinic. Later, I spent 20 years working at the Rehabilitation Institute of Michigan, where I helped people with newly acquired disabilities learn to adapt to change and live more independently.

One experience I’ll never forget was when I applied for the second job after leaving the mental health clinic. The application process itself was a struggle, but it got worse when I was refused an application to complete. The organization’s management told me that they didn’t think I’d be able to do the job. So, I requested a meeting with the head of the organization. It was a tough conversation, but I convinced them to let me complete the application. As noted, I got the job. but That was just one of many barriers that lead to my activism in the disability community.

The passage of the Americans with Disabilities Act in 1990 was a huge milestone for people with disabilities, but I know we still have a long way to go. The challenges I faced back then are still experienced by many people today. That’s one reason I’ve become so passionate about advocating for disability rights. It’s also why I believe it’s crucial to help people with disabilities take pride in who they are. We all need to find ways to define ourselves and advocate for our community.

Over the years, I have found many ways to give back to the community that supported me. I’ve served on various disability advocacy committees, including chairing a commission on disability concerns. I was also fortunate enough to serve on a Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion (DEI) committee for the League of Women Voters. These roles were meaningful to me because I was able to advocate for policies and services that directly impacted the lives of people with disabilities.

As of January this year, I began serving as the chair of the board of directors for the Greater Detroit Agency for the Blind and Visually Impaired (GDABVI). This organization provides essential programs and support services for people experiencing vision loss. I have benefited so much from the kindness and generosity of others, and I’m proud to give back in any way that I can. It feels rewarding to know that my work is helping people who are in situations I can relate to.

Through all these experiences, I’ve come to appreciate the importance of embracing who we are, challenges and all. I’ve spent a lifetime navigating the complex realities of vision loss, but it has never stopped me from moving forward. It has never stopped me from living my life to the fullest. Now, my goal is to ensure that others don’t have to face the same struggles alone. Whether it’s through advocacy, mentorship, or simply sharing my story, I want to help build a world where people with disabilities are seen, heard, and valued.

Looking back, I see just how far I’ve come, and I’m proud of the path I’ve taken. But I also know that the journey is ongoing. I’m not finished yet, there’s still so much work to be done, and I’m committed to being part of the solution. Visit: www.lifebeyondsight.org