When I was a teenager, I dreamt of being an artist. I loved painting, sketching, and creating with color. Art was my passion, and I particularly admired the works of Mexican painter Frida Kahlo. But just as I started my journey toward that dream, my vision began to fade.
I underwent several surgeries for detached retinas in both eyes, and for a while, it seemed like I had recovered. Then, 15 years later, it happened again—only this time, the damage was permanent. I lost vision in my right eye completely and was left with only partial sight in my left. That’s when everything changed. Suddenly, I was misjudging distances, bumping into walls, and tripping over stairs. But rather than show my frustration, I masked it with humor. Whenever I crashed into something, I’d laugh and say, “And now for my next trick!” It was my way of coping.
At work, things became harder too. My job at Concordia University kept me moving, running from meeting to meeting, trying to keep up. Reading was exhausting. I took files home because I couldn’t keep up with my computer work and paperwork during the day. I figured out little tricks—like memorizing PowerPoint slides I couldn’t see or keeping a safe distance from colleagues so I wouldn’t bump into them. I thought I knew all the tricks to fake my way through the challenges that kept growing. I was used to being strong, active, and independent. But now, I was just putting on a brave face. I was barely holding on.
Then, a colleague suggested I visit the university’s Access Office, a resource for students and staff with disabilities. That’s how I was connected to the MAB-Mackay. Although it was literally right next door to where I worked, it was a big step for me to take.
Not long after I made the call, a rehabilitation specialist was in my office, ready to offer support. She was kind, understanding, and patient. She never pushed—she just let me know what help was available. Then, one morning, while working remotely from home, I woke up to find I couldn’t see my computer screen at all. My left eye was failing, just as my right had before. On top of that, I had a few accidents walking outside because I couldn’t see the streetlights. I began to be afraid to leave my house.
My world started to feel smaller and smaller, and a sense of fear and isolation began to take hold. That’s when I knew that I couldn’t “fake it” anymore. I needed help. I had reached my limit.
Specialists from the MAB-Mackay came to my home and showed me how a few small adjustments could make daily life easier. They introduced me to adaptive technology so I could read again and made changes to my home to help make it safer. I also worked with multiple mobility specialists who taught me how to navigate my surroundings confidently, both at home and at work. I learned how to chop food safely, do laundry, and even unload the dishwasher without mishaps. They told me that one day, when I was ready, someone from MAB-Mackay would teach me how to use a white cane to walk safely in my community again.
In time, I was ready to take this big step. I was nervous at first, but they taught me life-changing techniques—how to sweep the cane to feel surfaces, listen for traffic signals, and navigate my surroundings with confidence. Each specialist provided invaluable support that gave me the confidence I needed. And slowly, I started to see things differently. I stopped dwelling on what I had lost and started seeing what was still possible. I learned new ways to do the things I loved. I began to regain the independence I thought I had lost. And, most importantly, I realized I didn’t have to do it alone.
The MAB-Mackay didn’t just help me get by. They helped me truly live again.
Thanks to the many skills I learned, I was able to continue my career until I retired on my own terms. Now, I’m embracing this next stage in my life, knowing that I have the tools and support to face whatever comes next. I am so grateful for everything I’ve learned and the community that has been there for me every step of the way.