A Mini Memoir By Louise Johnson

About Louise Johnson

Louise Johnson is a long-time member of the AEBC BC Affiliate, a recently appointed National Board Member, and a dedicated advocate for people who are blind or partially sighted. Through her own lived experiences, she’s learned the value of persistence, independence, and community support. Louise has volunteered with local schools, contributed to accessibility projects, and represented AEBC on the Access for Sight Impaired Consumers (ASIC) board. Her story reflects a lifetime of resilience and a deep commitment to helping others find their own path forward.

My Story

I’m writing this in honour of someone I deeply admired—my grandfather, my mother’s father. He was blind and hearing impaired. I grew up hearing him say things like, “Don’t shout at me,” or “Please, speak louder,” as he tried to balance his hearing aids and his patience. He could see only light and shadows, but he’d still insist, “I’ll read this newspaper if I have to stand on my head to do it.”

He had a temper and sometimes took it out on those around him, but he also taught me determination. He believed you could do anything if you set your mind to it. When I was seven, I watched him help my parents build our house from the ground up. He confused me at times, but he also inspired me. I’ve often thought that my life’s work is to make the world a better place for people like him—those who believe in their abilities, even when the world doesn’t make it easy.

My name is Louise, and I was born on March 24, 1966. I was born able to see only light. In the first 18 months of my life, I had seven eye operations. When I was finally fitted with my first pair of glasses at 18 months old, everything changed. My parents told me that once I could see better, I learned to walk and began bringing them things I found around the house.

But just around that time, I got into the garbage and ate something that made me dangerously ill. My parents said I was in the hospital on the critical list for 48 hours, and they weren’t sure I’d make it. Somehow, I pulled through.

As I grew, my parents learned two important things about me. First, I was missing the small flap at the back of my tongue, which made speech a challenge. I worked with speech therapists until I was about 11 years old, learning to form the harder sounds. Even now, there are sounds that still trip me up. Second, they realized I had a learning disability. I was often behind in school, but I kept trying.

When I was very young, I also had my adenoids and tonsils removed and ear tubes put in—three sets before I turned 12. I started school at Jericho Hill School for the Blind and stayed there for three years before my parents decided to move me to public school.

After Jericho, I attended a school in New Westminster, and when my family moved again, we settled in North Delta. I was 10-1/2 and still behind in my learning, but the next three years were some of the happiest of my childhood. I rode my bike, played hide and seek, and joined in with the other kids. School was good too. I was in classes with sighted children and got support when I needed it, especially for speech, reading, and spelling.

Then, when I was 13, my life changed. My right retina detached, and even after three surgeries, I lost sight in that eye permanently because of bleeding. Two years later, the same thing happened to my left eye. This time, I recognized the signs and got help faster. Over eight months and six operations to my left eye, doctors managed to save a little of my vision. I’ll never forget the moment I came home from the hospital completely blind—then, five days later, I saw red. That tiny flicker of colour brought me back for three more surgeries. By the time I was 17, I had endured nine eye operations and three knee surgeries. Those years were some of the hardest of my life.

At 18, I went on income assistance and moved out on my own. I finished high school with a work readiness certificate. After that, I learned to take care of myself and volunteered at a drop-in centre for troubled youth.

In 1987, I took my first computer course through the Vancouver School Board. That’s where I met Jane Blain from BC Blind Sports. A year later, I got my first guide dog, Loris—a yellow Lab who gave me freedom for the first time.

In 1989, I worked for Blind Sports and joined the swim team. I even worked as an extra on the TV show Danger Bay. In June 1990, I joined a ten-month project with the BC Coalition of People with Disabilities called “Plan an Access.” That fall, I met my husband, and by the next September, we were engaged.

We married in July 1992, and our son Anthony was born the following year. Unfortunately, he had allergies that made it impossible for us to keep Loris, so I gave her up in December. Losing her felt like losing my independence, but I focused on motherhood instead. Two years later, Brandon was born, and in 1998, we welcomed Dylan. Brandon had colic, and those early months were tough, but Dylan’s arrival brought a new kind of challenge—he was born with some of my eye problems and other health concerns, including an enlarged liver and spleen and a penicillin allergy. Thankfully, he’s doing well now.

As the boys grew, life sped by. When Dylan started grade one, I began applying for another guide dog since Anthony’s health had improved. I was nervous about leaving my family for four weeks of training, but I knew it would help all of us in the long run.

I began training on January 9, 2005. By then, my vision had declined even more, and I was afraid because I couldn’t see as well as when I had Loris. On January 12, I met Nate, a black Lab who would change my life. Our training was challenging and emotional. One afternoon, on a solo walk, Nate stopped and refused to move. I tried everything, but he stood firm. I felt like a failure. One of the trainers offered help, but I said I needed to figure it out myself. Then she gave me a hint: “Listen to the traffic.”

I realized I was too far from the road and too close to a building. I retraced my steps, told Nate “forward,” and we found our path again. Later, the trainer told me I’d been standing two feet off the sidewalk—Nate had saved me from stepping off a small wall. When I returned to the lounge, the class cheered. The head trainer told me, “That was your best walk—you solved your own problem.” I cried, overwhelmed with relief and pride, knowing that Nate and I had truly become a team.

I went home just in time for Dylan’s seventh birthday, and his wish was to wake up with our new guide dog in the house. With Nate, I found my freedom again. I became more involved in my children’s school, organized lunch programs, and even started a Christmas drive for local families. Seeing the community come together that year filled me with pride.

Then Nate became ill. After months of vet visits and treatment, he had to retire in 2006. Around the same time, my son Brandon nearly choked, my husband had a seizure, and I was holding the household together. Life came at me all at once.

Despite it all, I helped raise money for a new wheelchair-accessible playground at the school—the first in Surrey. Seeing my son Dylan help cut the ribbon made all the hard work worth it.

Two months later, I received my next guide dog, Hercules. He worked beautifully, and I stayed active at the school. When some doubted me because I was blind, other parents stood up for me. I became Vice President of the Parent Advisory Council and stayed involved until Dylan finished elementary school.

In 2011, life was full again. My sister got married, Anthony graduated from high school, and Dylan finished grade seven. But that same spring, Hercules retired, and I began training with Hawk, my fourth guide dog—a strong, loyal black Lab.

All my life, I’ve had knee problems. I was born with kneecaps that dislocate easily, and I’ve had surgery, but it never fully solved it. Arthritis adds to the pain. I don’t go out when it’s icy because one wrong step can put me out for months. Even so, each guide dog has helped me walk with confidence again.

For a long time, I doubted my skills. But with encouragement from others, I applied for help through EATI, got new adaptive equipment, and began volunteering more. In 2012, after training and volunteering all summer, I realized that advocacy and helping others were what I was meant to do.

I first joined AEBC when Richard Marion gave tickets to my kids to a Surrey Eagles hockey game. He said I’d need to become a member to get involved, so I did—and soon I was attending meetings and even conferences. Later, I became the AEBC representative to Access for Sight Impaired Consumers (ASIC). That role gave me new purpose. In 2012, I was elected as Vice President of the Vancouver Chapter and subsequently became Chapter President—a position I held until the chapter closed in 2021. I still sit on the BC Affiliate Executive and enjoy that work so much.

My determination and persistence are so strong that I once attended a virtual AGM planning meeting with AEBC from a hospital bed! I had fallen and broken my wrist which led to emergency surgery. This happened just before a 2019 Annual General Meeting and I wanted to see the planning through. A few days later, I flew to Ottawa with my fifth guide dog Kiara, brace on my arm.

When I look back, I see that every part of my life—every surgery, every loss, every joy—prepared me to help others. I don’t like seeing anyone struggle or go hungry, especially children. I still learn slowly, mostly by doing, but I keep learning.

And that’s what my life has been about—finding my way, one challenge at a time, and always getting back up again.

AEBC’s Impact in Louise’s Life

Louise’s story reflects what AEBC makes possible every day—a place where people who are blind, deafblind, and partially sighted can learn, grow, and lead together. What begins with peer support often leads to new confidence, new friendships, and the chance to take on meaningful roles in the community. Through shared experience, members learn practical skills—from using technology more independently to navigating systems that weren’t built with accessibility in mind.

But AEBC is more than a support network. It’s a space where lived experience becomes leadership. Members like Louise show how connection and determination can shape advocacy, influence policy, and open doors for others. Every story shared and every skill gained helps strengthen a community that’s building a more inclusive Canada—one voice, one action, and one partnership at a time.

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