“One Month Late, But Right on Time”

Still standing. Still her.

I’ve always been the kind of woman with a plan. A checklist. A goal. A vision of what comes next — and a backup plan in case that one fell apart.

So when I decided to start this blog, Diary of an Angry, Black and Blind Girl, I had it all mapped out — the name, the topics, the message, the September 28th birthday🎂 launch date. It was supposed to be the next great thing — creative, cathartic, and maybe even a little funny.  Of course, in Leslie fashion, while in the middle of navigating my greatest life challenge, I'm starting this new project - a whole live blog - because why not add "public vulnerability" to the list?!  

Honestly, it's therapeutic.  Writing helps me make sense of the chaos, gives my emotions somewhere to land, and reminds me that even in the middle of everything shifting, I still have my voice, and I still have a chance to help somebody else! ☺

As you read this, give me grace while I give myself grace.  This blog was a month late.  The next one might be late, too, and that's ok.  Words might be misspellllled, sentences might run on, and some days I might not have the words at all.  But it will still be real.  It will still be mine.  Imperfectly perfect -- just like me. ❤

My life has definitely been life-ing, beloved.

This past summer, I experienced a neurological event that changed everything about how I move through the world. I was later diagnosed with juvenile macular degeneration, which sounds like something only kids get, but here I am - 42 years old and dealing with it head-on.  To put that into perspective, about 2% of people my age is diagnosed with this.  It is a rare eye condition that affects about one in 10,000 people and causes progressive vision loss.  In simple terms, the sharp part of what I see — faces, text, details - has become blurred, while my side vision has faded away almost completely, and there is no cure.  Read that again.

No. Cure.

On top of that, I've also been recovering from a mild neurological event - the kind of thing that can completely shake your confidence.  It affected my balance, coordination, and the way my brain processes certain things.  Recovery has been a slow process, and I'm still very much on the mend.  This journey has humbled me in ways I could never have imagined.  I've had to re-learn things I once took for granted, all in silence, and I'm still learning - how to ask for help, how to wait, how to let someone else drive, read, or guide me through a space I can't clearly see.  For someone who's spent her whole life being the one in control, the one others turn to for solutions, that hasn't been easy.  Humility hits different when you've built your entire identity around independence.  I've had to sit in rooms where I am not the expert, depend on strangers to help me navigate, and trust that people would show up for me without judgment.  And while that kind of surrender used to feel like defeat, now it feels like faith - faith that I can still be strong even when I'm vulnerable, that I can still lead even when I need help standing and seeing.

"I have learned that I still have a lot to learn." ~ Maya Angelou

To look at me, you might not even notice. I don’t walk with a cane. I’m not in a wheelchair. I smile, laugh, sing, show up, all the things! But make no mistake — this is an invisible disability, and it has changed everything. Things that used to take an hour now take three. Simple tasks require more focus, planning, adaptation, patience, and sometimes a good cry followed by a long prayer.

Ouch, right?!

Special note to you from me:

If you see me out and I don't speak, please don't take it personally.  I promise I'm not being rude or distant - I simply can't see who's around me.  This vision loss has changed how I move through this world, but it hasn't changed my heart.  If you see me, say hi first.  I'll be grateful if you did.

For over 21 years, I’ve worked as a healthcare administrator — marketing programs, recruiting providers, managing inpatient and outpatient services, developing and executing clinical conferences, mentoring students, building programs, and fighting for equal access to healthcare. And yet, this season has shed bright light on how invaluable and insignificant what I consider to be an area of extreme importance can appear “insignificant” to those who sit comfortably in systems that were built for them. But for the rest of us - the ones who live on the other side of inequity - it’s life and death. It’s dignity and survival.

Imagine experiencing that after dedicating your life to making healthcare more humane.

So yes, I’m angry — because I’ve spent years pulling myself up by my so-called “bootstraps” (more like frayed laces tied together with grit, caffeine, and prayer), while people sitting in their privilege called the work “unnecessary.” They’ve never had to fight for care, so they can’t comprehend why it matters.

But now, I’m living inside the very system I’ve fought to fix. The red tape. The waitlists. The forms. The polite and impolite dismissals. And through it all, I’ve learned this truth: advocacy isn’t theoretical when your own access is on the line.

There’s also this other layer — the judgment. Everywhere I go, I feel it. Because my disability is invisible, people assume I’m fine. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wished I could wear a badge on my forehead that says, “It takes me longer to process things sometimes, but trust me — I probably understand it better than you.” I don’t need pity, I need patience. I don’t need sympathy, I need space to show up differently. It’s wild how quick people are to underestimate you when they can’t see your struggle — as if the only kind of disability that counts is the one they can identify at a glance.

One of the first things my provider told me when I started this journey was how crucial it would be to build a strong support system. And she was right. My daughters have been my anchors!  At the ages of 21 and 10, Kaila and Layla don't play when it comes to their Mommy!  My oldest daughter, Kaila, the family manager (and pre-med student, naturally), has been my rock. At my specialist appointment at Duke, she was ready to read the entire clinic for filth. Watching her defend me with that fire reminded me that my legacy is alive in her! I may be the patient now, but I’m still her teacher.

My beloved partner has given me a safe place filled with peace, joy, and just the right kind of distractions to keep me from sinking further into depression. He has shown up for me in ways that go beyond words, reminding me that even when the world doesn’t understand, I am not alone. This support has become my strength.  ❤ Thank you, beloved! ❤ God cleared out of my life what I didn't need to make room for who I truly do.  He is absolutely just right.  Having him in my life has shown me what it means to be supported, cherished, and given the space to be myself fully, even through this rediscovery phase.  Sometimes life has a way of removing what doesn't serve us to bring in what truly does.  <insert tea clocking fingers> 😉

"We must allow ourselves to release what doesn't serve us, so that what does may flourish."

~ Author Unknown (it was probably me 😉)

Thank you, family.  I love you.

They’ve truly been my eyes when I couldn’t see, my steady hands when I felt unsteady, and my safe place when I needed to rest. My partner has driven me to appointments, cried with me on the hard days, and filled our home with a sense of peace and even joy. And through sharing this, I want to encourage anyone reading this blog to think about their own support systems. If you’re on a journey of healing or rediscovery, know that you don’t have to do it alone. Let this be a space where we build that community together.

Through all of this — my faith has carried me. Prayer is what steadies me when my world feels blurry. God didn’t promise easy, but He promised presence. And He’s been here.  Still.

Thanks again God.  (That's my bestie for life!)

These days, I’m learning how to care for myself differently. To rest without guilt. To protect my peace like it’s my job. And yes — my family and friends have noticed. They’ve seen me slow down, set boundaries, and say no. They’ve seen me struggling to hang on to the independence and life I thrived in prior to this summer.

One thing I know for sure - I will leave a mark on this earth.  I've been through too much not to.  I know my purpose, and I'm still walking in it, even if the path looks different now.  My story, my voice, my advocacy, my faith, and my fight are all part of something bigger than me.  If I can help one person find hope, courage, or truth in their own story, then I've done what I came here to do!

And guess what? At this point, when it comes to my peace, I’m protecting it by any means necessary. I don’t care. I can’t.

Because the truth is, I can’t keep saving everyone else while losing myself. I’ve paid the price for that kind of stress — in my body, in my vision, in my spirit. So now, I’m done apologizing for choosing me.

This blog — Diary of an Angry, Black and Blind Girl — is where I tell the truth. About faith, frustration, family, and finding joy even when life shifts under your feet. It’s not about perfection. It’s about peace.

So here I am — one month late, but right on time.

Not broken. Not bitter. Just awake.

Still standing. Still her.

Still angry some days. Very tired on others. Still Black. Still a woman - her. But more at peace than I’ve been in a long time.

I’ve learned that slowing down doesn’t mean I’ve stopped. Setting boundaries doesn’t make me selfish. And choosing myself — over deadlines, over expectations, over the noise — is the most radical act of faith I can practice.

My outlook is different now. Living with an invisible disability has taught me that strength isn’t loud — it’s steady. It’s showing up anyway, even when the world assumes you’re fine because they can’t see your struggle. I’m still working, still leading, still showing up as a professional, but I no longer measure my worth by how much I can carry.

My faith keeps me centered, my daughters keep me laughing, my man keeps me grounded, and my purpose keeps me moving. And even when I stumble, I remember that God never asked me to be perfect — just to keep trusting Him, even when I can’t see the road ahead.  And let me be clear, yes, I'm full of faith, but I'm still real, honest, and unapologetic about who I am.  I love God deeply, but I also still cuss.  I don't fake holiness or quiet suffering.  I believe in prayer and therapy.  I believe in worship and boundaries.  I believe in grace and grit.  My relationship with God isn't polished -- it's personal.  He knows my heart, my mouth, my energy, my attitudes, and my sense of humor, and He loves me anyway.  That's the kind of faith I walk in - unfiltered, lived-in, and real.

I feel like there’s probably something I’ve left out that I wanted to say—but hey, that’s part of rediscovering myself too. If it comes back to me, we’ll just catch up on it next time. This journey is ongoing, and I’m so glad to have you along for it. So, stay tuned for the next post, and let’s keep figuring it all out together.

Before I go, I want to share a little sneak peek:
Starting in next month, I will be launching a new life coaching series.  It's all about rediscovering yourself, setting intentions for the season you're in and your next season, and finding your own path to healing and growth.  So if you're ready to walk this journey with me, stay tuned!  We are just getting started!  We are building a community of brave spaces and shared stories, and I can't wait to continue this journey side by side!  

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Welcome to Diary of an Angry, Black and Blind Girl.

This is where I stop performing strength and start living truth.

Where I speak from the heart — and if it makes people uncomfortable, so be it.

Because I’ve earned my peace.

And I don’t care who doesn’t understand it.

So maybe I’m a month late writing this post. That’s okay. I’m giving myself permission to take the time I need, to move at my own pace, and to rediscover myself without rushing the process. This journey isn’t about being on anyone else’s timeline. It’s about giving myself the grace to heal, to grow, and to find joy in my own time.

And most importantly, I want everyone reading this to know that you are not alone. This blog is meant to be a brave space—a place where we can share our journeys and support each other. And if this isn’t the right space for you, that’s okay—just make sure you find somewhere that feels right. Everyone deserves a community where they can feel seen, heard, and supported on their journey. Let’s walk this path together and remember that no matter where you are, you deserve a space that uplifts you and lets you be brave.

About This Blog

Diary of an Angry, Black and Blind Girl is a space where Leslie Council — healthcare administrator, educator, advocate, and unapologetic truth-teller — writes about life after everything changed.

For more than 21 years, Leslie has worked in healthcare administration — marketing programs, recruiting providers, managing inpatient and outpatient services, developing and executing clinical conferences, mentoring students, building programs, and fighting for health equity. Yet this season has illuminated how something she considers vital can still be dismissed as insignificant by those who’ve never had to fight for access, fairness, or dignity.

Here, she writes from the crossroads of identity, faith, and survival — as a Black woman, a believer, a mother, and a professional living with an invisible disability. Her experiences with vision loss and systemic inequity have reframed what success, self-care, and resilience truly mean.

This blog is equal parts truth-telling and testimony. It’s about faith that still works when life falls apart, anger that leads to awareness, and humor that keeps everything human.

It’s about family — the daughters who remind her to keep fighting, the laughter that makes healing lighter, and the deep, unshakable belief that she was never meant to quit.

Because at the end of the day, Leslie is still here.

Still advocating. Still believing.

Still standing. Still spicy. Still her.