10/24/2026
Blindness Awareness Month | The Side You Don’t Always See. 🖤
I think one of the hardest parts of going blind is realizing you’ve already seen something for the very last time… and you didn’t even know it.
This is going to be a different kind of post for me.
I’m not going to tell you how strong I am, find the positive in every negative, or remind myself that things could always be worse.
Because sometimes, I just need to admit that this s**t is hard! 😞
For years, I’ve had what we call “bad eye days.” Days when everything seemed foggier, blurrier, and harder to make out. Eventually, things would settle back into what I considered my “normal” vision.
Except lately, I’ve started realizing that I’m not having bad eye days anymore that are going to “get better”. This is just how I see now.
The fog isn’t lifting. The blurriness isn’t clearing. The things I used to be able to make out aren’t coming back into focus. And I’m having a really hard time accepting that.
I don’t know how to explain what it feels like to keep losing pieces of a world you once knew.
It’s loving the holidays but no longer seeing the decorations in people’s yards or even inside my own home. It’s knowing someone is standing in front of me but not being able to see their face, their expressions, or their smile.
It’s scrolling through years of photographs on my phone, memories of people, places, and moments that meant everything to me. Some of those photographs are of people I’ve loved and lost. And now I can stare at those pictures, knowing how precious they are, but unable to actually see them. 💔
Imagine having a lifetime of memories saved in photographs, only to realize you can no longer see the memories you’re trying so desperately to hold onto.
It’s being surrounded by people, movement, colors, and life, and feeling this strange visual emptiness where all of that used to be.
And it’s incredibly lonely sometimes.
I’ve always dreamed of seeing the world. I have places on my bucket list that I’ve imagined standing in front of, taking in the views, and experiencing things I’ve only ever dreamed about.
But now I have to face the reality that I may visit those places and never actually see what I once imagined seeing.
Walking through New York City or New Orleans. Standing on a beach along the Mississippi Gulf Coast or a beach in Fiji. I know those places are completely different, with different sounds, smells, and experiences.
But visually? So much of that difference is disappearing for me.
I’m grieving things I haven’t even experienced yet. And maybe one of the cruelest parts of progressive vision loss is that you don’t always know when you’re seeing something for the last time.
Sometimes you just wake up and realize another piece is gone. And you have to keep living your life while quietly trying to process that loss. Over and over again.
People mean well when they tell you to stay positive, be grateful, or remember that things could be worse.
And I am grateful. I have so much in my life that I love.
But gratitude doesn’t erase grief. And someone else’s suffering doesn’t make mine disappear.
I can laugh, make jokes about being blind, advocate for others, build a community, and encourage people to keep going. And I can still be absolutely heartbroken about my own reality.
Those two versions of me can exist at the same time.
Accepting that I’m blind doesn’t mean I’ve stopped grieving my vision. And learning to live with one level of vision loss doesn’t prepare you for the next.
I’m tired of constantly having to readjust to a world that keeps disappearing. I’m tired of finding a positive way to explain something that sometimes just plain sucks. And I’m tired of feeling like I need to turn every painful experience into a lesson about strength.
Sometimes I don’t want to be strong.
Sometimes I just want to be heard.
And that’s why I’m sharing this.
Not for pity. Not because I’ve given up. And certainly not because I want anyone to feel sorry for me.
This is education, too.
Blindness Awareness Month shouldn’t only be about celebrating independence, resilience, and all the amazing things people with vision loss can accomplish.
It should also make room for the grief. The frustration. The isolation. The fear. The anger. The exhaustion of constantly adapting to something you never asked for.
I’m still me. I’m still going to advocate, laugh, and show up for my community. But today, I’m not going to wrap my pain in a pretty little bow just to make it easier to read.
Today, I’m letting myself be the messy, overwhelmed, grieving version of me. The version who doesn’t have all the answers. The version who’s still trying to figure out how to experience a world she can no longer see the way she remembers it.
Because I can be strong and still be struggling.
And right now, I am.
That’s not defeat.
That’s my reality.
And that deserves to be part of the conversation, too. 🖤
