Wilfredo Martinez went to sleep one night able to see – and woke up blind.

The shift was sudden, but not entirely unexpected. As a teenager growing up in Camden, he started noticing blind spots in his vision, little patches where the world disappeared. An eye specialist diagnosed him with retinitis pigmentosa, a rare genetic condition that runs in his family. Two of his older brothers were born blind, while two others had full sight. Martinez, the youngest, was told that one day, probably soon, he would lose his vision too.

That day came in his early 30s, shortly after he’d married and bought his first home. He woke up one morning, stumbled to the bathroom, turned on the faucet – and was surprised by how foggy the room appeared.

He remembers thinking, “This bathroom never gets this steamy.” But no matter how much he wiped the mirror, the blur wouldn’t lift.

“I held my hands up in front of my face and couldn’t see them,” he says. “Then I sat down on the toilet and cried.”

In the space of a few months, everything changed. He left his job dispatching taxis. His marriage collapsed under the pressure. “It was like a death,” Martinez says. “And you have to grieve it like one. Because your life won’t be the same again.”

But losing his vision didn’t stop him. It set him on a new path.

Martinez found his way to Bestwork Industries for the Blind, a nonprofit based in Cherry Hill that provides steady, hands-on employment for people with vision loss. He’s now in his 28th year there, widely regarded as a mentor, advocate and the person everyone turns to.” 

“This place allowed me to be independent, it gave me the opportunity to be somebody,” he says.

Bestwork was founded in 1981 by Delran resident Jim Varsaci, a World War II veteran who lost his sight in combat. The original focus was sewing military uniforms, and Varsaci’s wife, Rita, helped train employees to work by touch.

“Jim told me, ‘From the minute you punch in to the minute you punch out, I’m going to be on your back,’” Martinez says. “And he was. But it made me better.”

Martinez has become a trusted presence on the production floor, especially when new employees need support. These days, he divides his time between sewing, mentoring new recruits and serving as one of Bestworks’ national advocates – traveling to Washington, D.C., to speak up for blind workers.

The work itself is technical and often repetitive: hemming cuffs, assembling uniforms, guiding fabric under the needle using just fingertips and muscle memory. But Martinez sees it differently. 

“There’s comfort in doing the same thing over and over again,” he says. “But the moment you get too comfortable, that’s when you get hurt.”

His role as a mentor goes beyond job training. Martinez thinks of himself as a bridge between two worlds: those who’ve always been blind and those, like him, who lost their sight later in life.

While Martinez never had children, he’s played a guiding role in the lives of his brother’s kids, who are blind as well. 

“They used to ask me, ‘Can you be loved if you can’t see?’ I told them, of course you can. Love isn’t about seeing. It’s about feeling, about being there,” he says. “I try to show them what’s possible. Just because you can’t see doesn’t mean you’re stuck.”

When asked what’s been the hardest part about going blind, Martinez doesn’t hesitate: “Not being able to see my mom’s face again.”

Even so, life moved forward in ways he couldn’t have predicted. Martinez, 55, remarried in 2016. He met his wife, Thania, one of Bestworks’ sighted employees, on the job. 

“She saved me from putting my hand in the trash one day,” he says of the workplace romance. “I kind of did it on purpose to get her attention.”

They now live in Pennsauken and enjoy spending their free time tending to bonsai trees.

His other passion is advocacy. This spring, he traveled to Washington for the first time to meet with New Jersey legislators and their staff. As one of 11 national advocates selected by National Industries for the Blind, he’s learning how to speak up for himself and others.

One of the issues he raises is how some federal programs unintentionally penalize people with disabilities for working. “If you earn over a certain amount, you risk losing your benefits,” he says. “So instead of encouraging independence, it creates fear.”

Martinez says that by sharing his story and listening to others, he can help push the system forward.

And that kind of change is already underway at Bestworks.

Today, in addition to sewing military garments and gear, the organization runs fully blind-operated departments for document scanning, e-commerce and packaging. Its training programs are designed to build confidence as much as skill. Employees begin on practice material, are supported with accessible technology and tactile guides, and transition to full-time production when ready.

Martinez says the future holds even more promise, especially as adaptive technology evolves. He uses voice-activated tools and bone-conducting headphones. He’s saving up for the new Meta smart glasses, which use AI to describe surroundings out loud.

“Some people are afraid of technology,” he says. “But for us? It’s freedom.”

Still, no device can replace human connection. That, he says, is where real healing begins.

“You lose your sight and think it’s over,” he says. “But it’s not. It’s just the beginning of something different.”