July is Disability Pride Month—a time to honor the experiences, rights, and dignity of people with disabilities. This month, many of us assert our identities, share our stories, and push for change in a world not yet built with us in mind. But today, I want to use this moment to shine a light in a different direction.
I want to say thank you.
Not to myself, or to others like me navigating life with a disability, but to the people who help us navigate it—literally and figuratively. The spouses. The parents. The siblings and children. The friends and colleagues who show up day after day, quietly offering guidance, support, encouragement, and care.
When I first heard the rhythm…
Earlier this summer, I traveled to Italy with my wife. We had an amazing time. But in the middle of all the fun, food, and beauty, she told me something I needed to hear. She said that, while she’s happy to help me navigate airports and streets and uneven cobblestones, while she’s glad to read signs and museum placards and help me get oriented when GPS gets confusing—sometimes "the dance" is just too much to do alone.
She didn’t say this to complain. She said it with love. And what I heard in that moment was: this is work. Important, invisible, emotional labor that often goes unrecognized.
That conversation stuck with me. Because it reminds me that pride in my own identity as a blind person doesn’t exist in a vacuum. I am proud of who I am. But I’m also deeply proud—and grateful—for the people who help me live fully as that person.
Invisible choreography
Rather than summarize her experience, I want to share her words here in full. They speak honestly and beautifully to the dance we’ve developed over the years—and what it meant when she had to carry it by herself:
So, one of our boys asked me why I didn’t seem that excited about our trip to Italy. I had to admit I was feeling some anxiety. I love to travel—I’ve done a lot of it, mostly on my own, or as a trip leader with students or with church groups. Travel itself doesn’t make me anxious; I love a new adventure. So admitting that I was nervous about this trip was hard.
He asked what made this time different. I had to admit it was just me and Dad, and that meant a lot more pressure on me. I didn’t have to explain—he immediately said, “Yeah, I get it.” And he did.
I was feeling pressure on two levels. One was the task of managing travel for two people, mostly on my own. The other was not letting Simon know I was managing it on my own, because I didn’t want him to feel disempowered, frustrated, or belittled. I had been pushing those feelings aside, trying to deal with them later as I focused on all the other preparations.
The truth was, I knew I’d need to read all the signs, monitor departure and arrival boards, keep an eye out for obstacles, listen for airport announcements, watch for early boarding lineups, and stay extra alert during TSA screening to make sure Simon could follow their directions. Normally, we travel with our twins, but this year it was just the two of us—a different rhythm entirely.
Often people don’t realize Simon is blind, and they’re less than helpful. TSA agents might talk to him while looking away or gesture vaguely, which he can’t see. It’s hard for him to follow instructions in chaotic environments. Sometimes he doesn’t realize someone is speaking to him specifically, and they get impatient or snap at him. Other travelers might roll their eyes or act annoyed when he doesn’t respond quickly. And some people just push past us, unaware that he can’t see what they see.
Then there’s my fear of needing to see __everything. I get anxious that the gate number might change and I’ll miss it, or that I’ll misread a board, or overlook a construction sign while wrangling our luggage. When we travel with others, I have extra eyes. When I’m alone, I only have to worry about myself. But this was different—I didn’t want to make a mistake that would affect both of us.
When our kids travel with us, they help make sure Dad doesn’t bump into things, or they "run interference" by walking in front of him so others don’t get in his way. When we rent a car, one of them usually navigates—reading street names, watching the GPS, and calling out landmarks. Simon doesn’t drive, so he doesn’t always realize how helpful that is to me, especially in unfamiliar places, in an unfamiliar vehicle, where even the roads feel different from what we’re used to.
Over time, the kids and I have developed a kind of dance when it comes to supporting Simon. We don’t talk about it much—we just use glances and head nods. It’s become a kind of unspoken language that helps him stay independent while keeping him safe. It works beautifully when we’re all together. I remember once, an international airport refused to let the four of us board early together and split us up. One of our twins had a panic attack because the airport had disrupted our choreography. It ruined our rhythm.
Italy, though, was going to be a solo dance for me—twirling around Simon, watching out for everything, navigating in another language, in another country, with jet lag—and hoping he didn’t see me darting about, trying to keep the dance in time.
Eventually, I had to be honest. The dance is too draining to do alone.
After less than three hours of airplane-quality sleep, we made it through two European airports, passport control, baggage claim, a rental car pickup, an hour-long drive on winding roads (using the metric system, no less), found an ATM, and shopped at a small supermarket. I was absolutely exhausted. I knew I couldn’t enjoy the trip while carrying all that anxiety and fatigue. I had to explain the dance—and we had to learn how to do it together.
I didn’t want to tell him there was a dance. I still wish it could be as easy for him as it is for someone with full vision. I worried it might break his heart, or feel diminishing to him as a man. But it also felt dishonest to keep it to myself. This was my reality as his partner, and sometimes, it’s just really hard.
Her words impacted me deeply, and I’ve been sitting with a swirl of emotions. Surprise, because I had no idea about this unspoken choreography. Sadness, because I hate that she’s had to carry it alone. Frustration, both at my own limitations and at a world that too often fails to accommodate them. But most of all, I feel immense gratitude and admiration—for her honesty, her love, and her strength.
Learning new steps together
After that conversation, we were able to make a few adjustments that helped “bring me into the dance” more—and made things just a little easier for both of us:
- We found ways to improve my effectiveness as GPS navigator during drives, especially in the maze of Italian roundabouts. It helped to communicate directions using a clock-face analogy—saying “take the 9:00 exit” gave clear spatial cues.
- I let her know that specific directions like “turn left” or “turn right” are more helpful than pointing and saying “this way."****
- She discovered that Google Street View was incredibly helpful when planning walking routes in unfamiliar towns and cities.
These small steps give me hope. Just knowing about the dance helps me relax and participate in it, and it helps me understand the extra energy it requires—not only from my wife, but from every travel companion who’s ever walked a few steps ahead or behind me to help smooth the path. And when each of us takes the time to articulate what’s hard and brainstorm how to make it easier, it draws us closer together and makes the journey sweeter for both of us.
Thank you to our unseen partners
So if you are someone who supports a person with a disability—if you drive them, guide them, advocate for them, read a menu aloud, gently remind them to use their cane, or simply listen when they’ve had a hard day—this post is for you.
I see you.
You are part of this dance.
You are a quiet source of strength in a world that often moves too fast and too thoughtlessly.
You make full lives possible. And I’m proud of you.
This Disability Pride Month, let’s remember that pride isn’t just about individual resilience. It’s about relationships. It’s about the people who lift us up when the world feels like it’s pushing down. You may not wear the label, but you carry the load. And we’re better for it.
Thank you—for your selflessness, your love, your effort, and your pride in us.
We carry that pride together.
And when the dance becomes too much to carry alone, we learn to move in step—with each other, and with love.