Sunday mornings tend to be my morning to get up first and feed the animals. I quite like it because it gives me a couple of hours to potter around downstairs, pop some music on and generally ease myself into the day.

I have had to adapt so many ways I approach everyday life that these little moments of peace when I can fake normality are a welcome reprieve from the constant, exhausting battle that so many of us face to live in a world not designed for sight loss. With more and more everyday items embracing soft-touch buttons and touch screens with not even a nod to how some people may fail to interact with them without adaptations. Disappointly, so often designers just don’t seem to realise that there are others in the world who simply cannot use these solutions.

Outside of the home, there is a drive to push us to electronic forms of payment and some shops and restaurants have now made it their policy to only accept card payments. Now, we’ve all got to the checkout, they’ve scanned our items and we’ve tapped our cards against the machine but it gives that dreaded double-beep to signify the card has to be inserted and you need to tap in your PIN. Next time that happens and you are presented with a smooth flat screen to tap on, I invite you to close your eyes and see how long it takes for you to go rooting back through your wallet for an alternative card or to activate mobile payments on your phone or watch.

But wait – you only have one card and your phone is at home. What do you do then?

You can’t exactly tell your PIN to the shop assistant and they don’t accept cash. So what do you do?

You could ask the assistant to turn on the accessibility functions or, better still, to provide an overlay so you can locate the right points on the screen. Chances are they don’t know how to do the first and they don’t have a clue about the second. So you really have no choice but to mumble an apology and leave without your goods – downhearted and dejected and, worst of all, apologetic for having inconvenienced those around you.

You go home and attempt to buy your item online. You know that the company has a same-day delivery option which may cost more but you desperately need it today for the perfect anniversary meal you’re cooking. You log onto the website and try to find the search bar but the site’s not responding and your screen reader isn’t playing ball. Turns out they have an offer for 10% off your first order and free 1 hour delivery when you subscribe but the pop-up hasn’t been configured to work with screen readers. This is odd because they’ve just been running a massive Purple Tuesday campaign in recognition of all the disabled shoppers out there.

So what now? You desperately need the shallots for the boeuf bourguignon your wife loves so much and reminds her of your first wedding anniversary in Paris. You have no other option but to call in outside help and you don’t want to ask your wife because it’ll ruin the surprise so, in desperation, you pick up your phone to call Mum before remembering she’s away for the weekend. Now you’re really left with no other option but to call in that one person you can always rely on – your rock, your lobster, the one who does so much and asks for so little. But on this one occasion when you try to do it yourself, you end up failing miserably. Not because of anything you’ve done, but because of barriers that are in your way.

You place the call and she’s on her way home. It’s not a problem at all to pop into the supermarket and grab the tiny little sweet onions that make the sauce pop and while she’s there, is there anything else we need. Perhaps a nice bottle of Sancerre to go with it?

Panic over and the day is saved but you still feel deflated – the surprise is ruined and yet more independence has been eroded. That knot in your stomach tightens a bit more and you struggle to settle over dinner – becoming even more quiet and insular. You’re 45 years old and still need to call your mum to help with the basics. You’re more than capable of doing these things yourself and have done for the best-part of 40 years but now you feel useless, second-class, a burden on society.

When 1 in 4 adults are disabled why do we find it so hard to adapt the world? It should, after all, be second-nature but for some reason we just can’t get our heads around needing to be inclusive. As individuals we care so much and are amazing at making the right noises, saying how unfair it all is; but that rarely translates into anything tangible leaving it down to us to find ingenious solutions to everyday problems. Quite often these changes we make would actually help the rest of the world too – like fitting tactile markers to the soft-touch controls of a hob. How much more convenient would that be to be able to adjust the heat when cooking without having to take your eyes off the pan?

There’s a phrase minority groups use when discussing inclusivity which is “nothing for us without us” and the point is that, unless we’re included in the decision-making process so often we will get inadvertently excluded. I’ve managed to go through this entire piece without using the dreaded D-word but there is no other way to describe these situations as anything other than discrimination, albeit by omission, but discrimination nonetheless. If you were refused access to groceries in any other circumstances then you would justifiably scream blue-murder but for some reason it is just accepted with a shrug and an apologetic smile when it happens to us.

Is it any wonder we get so frustrated?

Back to my peaceful Sunday morning. I’ve got a cup of strong coffee beside me and the Rolling Stones playing on my record player which I’ve adapted using bump-ons and a piece of garden wire.

It’s tough being blind in this sighted world but with so much knowledge and experience being readily available and members of the visually impaired community eager to share it there is hope.

We just need someone to listen.