When testing means torture: The unseen burden on students with visual impairments

The moment that broke me was quiet.

The lead tester and I locked eyes from across the room, and both of us mimed a slow groan. My student’s finger—just one small hand on one long page—hadn’t moved in over an hour. He wasn’t distracted. He wasn’t lazy. He was simply doing his best to read a one-page story in braille, letter by painstaking letter, and answer its questions on the standardized reading test.

It took him all day. And that was just one passage.

This student, like many others at my school for the blind and visually impaired, had only recently learned the braille alphabet. Yet here he was, taking a high-stakes literacy assessment designed for fluent readers. We started at 9 a.m. and ended at 3 p.m., with minimal breaks. Everyone—teachers, students, hall monitors—was walking on edge. It wasn’t just long. It was emotionally exhausting.

The next day, he found out his classmates had gotten extra recess after finishing early. His face fell. Determined to catch up, he returned with grit. He sat through another full day of testing. Still, he didn’t finish early. He left that afternoon disappointed, dragging himself into school the following day with shoulders slumped, spirit dimmed.

I sat next to him, trying to hold him together with a few words. “We’re all in this together,” I told him. “I’m proud of how seriously you took this test. That takes character.” We talked about doing the hard thing, the right thing—even when nobody sees the struggle. But I did see it. And it’s burned into me.

Standardized testing already pushes students. But for those with visual impairments, the burden is often unbearable.

Many people assume technology makes things easier for blind students. In some ways, it does. But in others, it’s a barrier few want to acknowledge. Screen readers glitch when content isn’t coded properly. Magnification tools can cut off page elements. Images become meaningless without alt text. Even navigating between test sections becomes a maze when you can’t skim with your eyes.

On one test, the page numbers at the top and bottom of the braille sheet didn’t even match. My student asked, “Which one do I use?” And I couldn’t give him a clear answer.

We test these kids relentlessly—not just annual state exams but biweekly probes, often using the exact same content. We say we’re tracking growth, but are we? Or are we just exhausting the kids and calling it data?

I’ve said this for 20 years: we over-test. And we especially over-test students with disabilities. But I’ll be honest—until I started teaching students who are blind, I had no idea how deep the disconnect was. You don’t know what you don’t know. Teaching about stanzas is hard if you’ve never seen one. Explaining a plot diagram? Nearly impossible—unless you make it tangible. I had to recreate concepts with texture, movement, and metaphor because visual shortcuts don’t exist here. Thank God for Twinkie sticks—anything that helps make structure tactile.

After spring break, I didn’t see all my students in class again until the week of May 22. Testing started on April 30. That’s three weeks lost to silent rooms and high-stakes stress.

If I could change just one thing, it would be this: for students not yet proficient in braille, let them listen to the test content—measure analysis, not decoding speed. Equal access doesn’t mean identical delivery.

And for the love of learning—simplify. Define what each grade level should truly master, explain why it matters, and provide teachers and students with sufficient time to prepare.

I’m not just a teacher. I’m an advocate for learning. I will do, say, act, play, jump on a table, or quack like a duck if that’s what it takes to help a student grow. Learning doesn’t require expensive platforms. It needs people who care, who listen, and who are passionate about making a difference, not sitting around waiting for retirement.

My students are brilliant. But the system isn’t built for them. And they’re the ones paying the price.

Sarah Beveliaque-Thomas is a high school English teacher serving blind and visually impaired students in South Carolina. She is a passionate advocate for equitable assessments and teacher-led innovations in accessibility.