Image description: Progress Pride Flag with a white cane crossing diagonally and the words “Blind & Proud” in rainbow letters on a black background.
A Message to Our Community
Happy Pride to every blind person navigating a world that wasn’t built for us, but still choosing to live their joy, truth, and power. Whether you’re out and loudly proud or quietly becoming, this message is for you. And if you’re a teacher, service provider, advocate, policymaker, or someone who cares about blind and queer youth, you’re part of this too. You don’t need to have all the answers. You just need to care enough to keep learning. And the fact that you’re reading this already matters.
As we close out Pride Month, let’s celebrate not just visibility and community, but also commitment. A commitment to making sure blind and queer youth don’t just survive in our systems, but thrive.
Growing Up Without Representation
I was raised in East Africa, in communities where heteronormativity wasn’t just a cultural expectation—it was enforced by law. Being LGBTQ+ was illegal, and in some places, it still is punishable by death. Even though one of my mother’s best friends was queer, and my mother was warm, supportive, and open, we all understood the risks. The love he felt had serious consequences if found out. So we were careful. Kind. Quiet. Because of this, I didn’t learn about queerness as a movement or community. There were no out couples. No representation. I simply assumed what I’d been taught: grow up, marry a man, have a family, carry on.
I also didn’t grow up with language that reflected who I was becoming, and certainly not with positive messages around blindness or queerness. That absence wasn’t neutral. It was shaped by systemic ableism, homophobia, and transphobia—forces that continue to influence education, healthcare, family dynamics, and cultural representation. I internalized those systems deeply, absorbing messages that framed queerness as deviance and blindness as deficiency. These internalized beliefs—internalized ableism and internalized homophobia—taught me to question my worth, my desirability, and my future.
My Journey into Queer Identity and Education
My sex education? A quick, diagram-heavy class in middle school that covered puberty and anatomy—nothing about consent, pleasure, identity, or relationships. Just function, no meaning. I didn’t know other family structures or ways of being even existed.
That changed when I moved to Chico, California for college. In my first Sex Ed 101 class, my professor brought in a panel of LGBTQ+ people to share their experiences. They spoke about their lives with honesty, humor, grief, and joy. In doing so, they gave me something I had never had before: language, permission, and a way in.
Suddenly I had words that opened doors inside me that led to greater freedom and understanding. I began naming my identity—first as bicurious, then bisexual, then pansexual, and now adopting and loving the term queer. I met classmates who shared my questions and affirmed my existence. When that same professor asked me to become her teaching assistant, it opened yet another door that I didn’t know I had been waiting for all my life: it sparked a journey into public health, sexuality education, and the pursuit of accessible, affirming systems that don’t just include us—they welcome us.
Learning to Be Blind & Proud
Queerness wasn’t the only identity I had to learn to live into. I became blind in my early twenties, after years of living in a sighted world without understanding what blindness meant or how it might be part of my story. I didn’t grow up with blind mentors. I didn’t see blind adults with power, agency, or pride. I had no roadmap. The world I lived in was built for sighted people, and it showed. I internalized the idea that blindness was a deficit, something to hide, something that made me less competent, less attractive, less human. That kind of invisibility is a direct result of systemic ableism, and it shapes how you imagine your worth, your future, your relationships. But despite all of that, I found another way forward.
And here I am. Blind & Proud.
That phrase isn’t just a slogan—it’s a truth I came to over time. It’s a love letter to every blind person who has ever been told to make themselves smaller, to wait, to settle, to never strive for greatness. It is a declaration that we belong to ourselves. That we don’t need to trade dignity for access. That our pride isn’t conditional—it’s inherent in who we are.
Blind & Proud means knowing that my blindness connects me to a culture, a lineage, and a community that knows how to create within constraints, to love with both abandon and precision, and to lead with truth. I’m whole. I didn’t grow up with all the models I needed, but I work every day to ensure that blind and queer youth don’t have to build themselves alone.
How History and Systems Shape Sex Education
Internalized ableism, homophobia, and transphobia are not just personal struggles, they are structural conditions. They are embedded in what schools don’t teach, what families fear to say, what policies erase, and what society punishes outright. When I talk about transforming sex education and transitional services, I’m not just speaking from lived experience—I’m speaking as a blind public health and sexual health professional who is actively working to build what I never had access to.
Historically, sex education for blind and disabled people has been built on a foundation of ableism and heteronormativity. In the 19th and 20th centuries, eugenics-driven policies justified denying disabled people autonomy and access to sexual knowledge. Blind children were sometimes forced to sleep with their hands outside the covers to prevent self-exploration. Queer identities weren’t just ignored, they were ostracized and criminalized—and in some places, they still are. In landmark cases like Buck v. Bell, the U.S. Supreme Court upheld forced sterilization of people deemed “unfit,” including disabled people. This wasn’t ancient history—it was law.
Sex education curricula have long assumed heterosexuality as the only path. Blind students, if taught at all, were expected to conform to standards that didn’t always reflect our bodies, desires, or realities. And queer blind students? We were rarely acknowledged, much less affirmed. The legacy of eugenics, combined with the normalization of heteronormativity, left little room for disabled or queer youth to see themselves in the content—or in the people teaching it.
What’s Still Missing in 2025
Today, many transitional-age programs still fall short of offering culturally responsive, gender-affirming, and accessible education. Curricula are often stripped of LGBTQ+ content. Staff are frequently untrained in LGBTQ+ cultural humility or disability justice. And many policies are outdated, failing to reflect the inclusion, language, and intersectional equity frameworks we should expect in 2025. These are not bad people. They are professionals working within systems—school districts, residential programs, rehabilitation centers, and transitional services—that were never designed with blind and queer youth in mind.
Harmful Messages and Missed Opportunities
And blind LGBTQ+ youth are living with the consequences. Many lack access to medically accurate, inclusive information. Some have never had their pronouns respected in a school setting. Some have been denied participation in health lessons due to guardians’ discomfort. Others have had to unlearn shame-based metaphors from abstinence-only programs.
One metaphor compares students to a piece of tape—used over and over again on different surfaces until it no longer sticks—implying that anyone who has had sex is damaged or incapable of love. Another metaphor passes around a cup of water for students to spit into, asking if they’d drink it now that it’s been “used.” These metaphors shame youth, especially queer kids and those who’ve experienced assault, into believing their worth is tied to sexual “purity.” They teach nothing about boundaries, communication, or consent.
What Inclusive Education Could Look Like
Contrast that with what comprehensive, accessible, and inclusive sex education could look like: a space where blind and queer youth learn that their bodies are good, their choices matter, and their identities are worthy of respect. A place where they are taught how to name their needs and explore relationships built on mutual understanding and care. A classroom where pleasure isn’t taboo, but human. A truly pleasure-centered approach teaches young people to know their bodies, communicate their needs, set boundaries, and explore what safety, joy, and mutual respect can look like.
Addressing Isolation and Building Culture
Many blind students also experience heightened social isolation. Without peers or mentors to reflect their identities, they may feel alone in both their queerness and their blindness. Some face increased risk of abuse due to lack of access to consent education or systems that treat them as incapable of asserting boundaries. These are public health failures—and preventable ones.
We can build something better, and the wisdom to do so is already here. Blind and queer educators, advocates, and youth have long been creating tools, models, and conversations that center access, agency, and joy. Blind-positive culture teaches interdependence, creative problem-solving, and emotional precision. Queer culture teaches that joy is resistance, family is chosen, and love is expansive. What’s been missing isn’t the insight—it’s the investment. When we begin to trust and resource the people most impacted, the path forward becomes not only possible, but powerful.
Pride as a Year-Round Commitment
When we say Pride Never Ends, we’re not just talking about identity. We’re talking about systems. Inclusive education for blind and queer youth means more than braille sex ed or diverse lesson plans. It means shifting the culture of education itself, where access is non-negotiable, joy is central, and queer and disabled youth are seen as leaders in the making, not problems to be solved. That kind of pride doesn’t fit in one month. It’s something we live, build, and protect all year long.
A Blind & Proud approach to education doesn’t treat access as accommodation—it treats it as foundational to leadership, identity, and joy.
Practicing Consent Culture
I’ve watched blind queer youth ask the questions we were once too afraid to speak aloud and be met with affirmation, not silence. Imagine a sex ed class with tactile models, braille handouts, and gender-inclusive language. A life-skills program that names queerness, teaches dating safety, and models healthy boundaries. A school environment where blindness is affirmed, gender is self-defined, and consent is practiced daily. We already have the tools. We just need to use them.
Consent culture is foundational to all of this. In today’s divided political climate, LGBTQ+ rights are under attack, and disability protections are being rolled back. But consent culture may be one of the few values we can still unite around. It teaches that everyone deserves bodily autonomy. That communication should be clear, accessible, and mutual. That respect for identity isn’t optional. For blind queer youth, this isn’t just theory—it’s survival.
It means being able to say:
“I’d love to connect, but can we first talk about what makes this feel safe and accessible for both of us?”
“Before we move forward, I need you to understand and affirm my identity—not just tolerate it.”
“I use a mobility aid and I also have boundaries—please ask before touching me or my cane.”
These aren’t just good communication habits—they are survival strategies in a world that too often treats blind and queer bodies as public property or afterthoughts. And they are teachable. They belong in our classrooms, our trainings, and our everyday interactions. Because when blind and queer youth are taught that their needs, boundaries, and identities matter, they don’t just learn to navigate the world—they begin to reshape it.
Join Us in the Work Ahead
If you’ve made it this far, thank you. You’re already part of the change. Whether you’re reviewing your curriculum, planning a workshop, or just having more honest conversations, this work is ongoing and deeply needed. Make sure sex ed materials are available in accessible formats. Train staff in LGBTQ+ cultural humility and disability justice. Integrate consent culture, relationship skills, and pleasure-based frameworks. And include queer and disabled people in curriculum design, policy reviews, and leadership roles.
If you’re looking to connect, learn more, or collaborate—you can always start at www.lauramillar.com.We’re also growing a team through the Blind Sexuality Access Network (BSAN), offering training, consulting, and peer-led insight from blind educators and advocates. Learn more at www.blindsexualityaccessnetwork.org
So as Pride Month ends, let’s carry its spirit forward. Let’s show what it means when Pride Never Ends—not just through celebration, but through curriculum, consent, culture, and connection. Being Blind & Proud is more than a feeling. It’s a framework. A future. A love letter to every blind and queer person who has ever felt unseen.We see you. We are you. And we’re not going anywhere. Happy Pride!
Authorship Note
This piece was written by Laura Millar, with structural and editorial support from ChatGPT. The content reflects both my lived experience and my professional work in the Blind Community. I use AI tools thoughtfully—to support clarity, flow, and organization—but the voice, vision, and message are mine, and I stand fully behind them.
About the Author
Laura Millar (she/they) is a blind, queer public health and sexuality education professional, a parent, and a co-founder of the Blind Sexuality Access Network. Her work blends lived experience and professional expertise to challenge ableism, build consent culture, and expand access to pleasure-centered education. Learn more about Laura at www.lauramillar.com/about
In-Depth Image Description and Credit
The image features the Progress Pride Flag as the background. Six horizontal stripes make up the traditional rainbow Pride flag:Red symbolizes life,Orange symbolizes healing,Yellow symbolizes sunlight,Green symbolizes nature,Blue symbolizes serenity or harmony,and Purple symbolizes spirit.
On the left side of the flag, chevron stripes point toward the center. These include black and brown to represent people of color and the need to address racism within the LGBTQ+ community, and light blue, pink, and white to represent the transgender community.
A white cane, a mobility tool used by blind individuals to navigate the world, crosses diagonally from the top left to the bottom right of the flag, visually connecting pride in blindness with LGBTQ+ identity.
Below the flag, the words “BLIND & PROUD” appear in large, bold, uppercase letters. Each letter is filled with one of the six traditional Pride colors. The entire design sits against a solid black background, enhancing visibility and providing strong visual contrast.
This graphic boldly affirms intersectional identity, celebrating both blind and LGBTQ+ pride.
Credit
The Progress Pride Flag was designed by Daniel Quasar. Learn more at progress.gay.
The “Blind & Proud” graphic was created by Murdock Storm. Find more of their work on Instagram at @startedsailing and @startedraining
