Travelling with Baggage (That Doesn’t Fit in a Suitcase) By Tactile Nomad

There are things I pack when I travel: chargers, clothes, vape capsules, maybe a cheeky snack or two. But there’s a different kind of baggage that follows me — the kind that doesn’t fit neatly into a case or get declared at customs. It’s the emotional weight I carry from growing up in a family shaped by fear.

I’m writing this anonymously, not because I’m hiding — but because I’m protecting space. Not just for me, but for anyone else who lives with the quiet, internal calculation of how much truth they can share with the people who raised them. My family isn’t cruel. They’re cautious. But their caution was carved by a different world — one filled with conflict, danger, and uncertainty.

They were raised in a version of Northern Ireland that taught them survival over softness. And while the bullets and bombs may have faded, that survival instinct calcified into a deep mistrust of change, risk, and sometimes… me. Especially when I step out of line with what they expect a blind man to do.

You see, I travel.
I fly across oceans, navigate foreign streets with my guide dog, try strange foods, fall in love, and live — messily, brilliantly, and sometimes uncomfortably.
I use cannabis — not for rebellion, but for relief. It helps ease the chronic pain and anxiety I carry. It gives me space to breathe. To feel. To move.

And yet, despite all that I’ve accomplished — the independence, the awareness, the education — there’s a part of me that still flinches at the idea of telling my family where I’m going next. Not because I need permission. But because I’ve learned that their love often shows up as fear. And their fear? It’s loud.

Over time, I’ve found myself withholding things — travel plans, health choices, major shifts — not to deceive, but to delay the emotional drain. The fear-bullying. The subtle undermining wrapped in concern. The implied helplessness. I don’t tell them things until the last minute, and even then, I brace.
But the part that eats me up is what comes between those moments. The silence. The stress. The internal push and pull of not wanting to cause worry… but also not wanting to absorb it.

I’ve had to build boundaries to stay sane. Therapy helped. Cannabis helped. Distance helped. But even now, it still stings. Because there’s still that voice inside — the one that wants to be seen, not just kept safe. To be trusted, not just tolerated.

That’s where the “Nomad” part of this name comes in.
I move.
Geographically, emotionally, spiritually.
And every mile I travel — whether it’s to Cornwall, Canada, or just away from a painful pattern — belongs to me. Every time I grind my prescribed medical dose and load a dry herb vaporiser bowl or capsule, I’m making space for clarity, for relief, for grounding. Every late-night decision to not message home just yet… it’s all part of the map I’m drawing on my own terms.

If you relate to this — if you’ve ever swallowed your truth to keep someone else comfortable — know this: You’re not dishonest. You’re discerning.
You’re not disloyal. You’re self-protective.

And if, like me, your journey includes disability, cannabis, or nontraditional choices…
You don’t need to make yourself smaller to be worthy of peace.

You are not here to submit.
You are here to live. Fully. Fiercely. Freely.And if the people who love you can’t yet see that…
Well, maybe they just haven’t travelled as far as you.

#disability

#mentalhealth

#invisiblebaggage

#boundaries

#blindtraveller

#medicalcannabis

#familydynamics

#generationaltrauma

#tactilenomad

#accessibleliving

#disability #mentalhealth #invisiblebaggage #boundaries #blindtraveller #medicalcannabis #familydynamics #generationaltrauma #tactilenomad #accessibleliving