Contrary to popular belief, blindness isn’t a one-size-fits-all condition. What I share here is my story—my unique journey—and it’s likely no other blind person has experienced it the same way.

Table of Content:

1. My Path to Blindness

2. What Do Blind People See?

3. How I Felt About Going Blind?

4. The Worst Part of Being Blind for Me

5. How Do Blind People Cope

6. Final Thoughts

   
   

My Path to Blindness

I began losing vision at 19. My left eye retained only a small patchy field, while my right eye was left with a non-central, even smaller, clear field. For six years, I clung to what I had, naively optimistic that modern medicine would “fix” me.

By 25, my vision took another hit. The little clarity in my left eye became obscured by a thick fog. I used to joke with friends that it felt like walking through heaven. My brain even refused to use the tiny clear spot in my right eye, preferring the larger blur from the left.

And just when I thought I’d adjusted, life threw another curveball. At 33, my left eye went completely dark, leaving me with only that tiny window of vision in my right eye. They say, “Be careful what you wish for.” Turns out, they were right.

With my relevance to the topic established, let’s answer some initial questions:

What Do Blind People See?

Let’s bust a myth: less than 15% of blind people experience total darkness. I’m not one of them. Blindness exists on a spectrum: reduced fields of vision, patchy eyesight, foggy views, or a mix of these.

But here’s the catch: blindness isn’t defined by what you see but by what you can’t do. If impaired vision stops someone from carrying out daily tasks like a sighted person, they’re blind. That’s why categories like “low vision,” “visually impaired,” and “legally blind” exist—they describe what we can or can’t do, not just what we see.

How I Felt About Going Blind?

Here’s another surprising stat: over 80% of disabled people weren’t born that way. Most, like me, acquire disability later in life, often due to accidents or medical conditions. And let me tell you, no one’s sitting around expecting to go blind.

When I first started losing vision, I didn’t see it as a loss—I was optimistic, even naïve. I thought, “I’m just sick, and this will pass.” It wasn’t until I hit 25, during a major vision loss episode, that the reality sank in.

Having lived sighted for my entire childhood and early adulthood, I was completely unprepared for what lay ahead. I had acquired tools, education, and life skills meant for a sighted future. When blindness came knocking, I was stuck in limbo: sighted in my mind, but legally blind in reality.

While clinging to my sighted identity pushed me to achieve things I might not have otherwise tried, it also held me back. By resisting the “blind” label, I denied myself access to tools that could’ve made my life easier.

Eventually, I found my answer: accept the label without lowering expectations. That balance is what kept me moving forward.

The Worst Part of Being Blind for Me

The hardest part of losing my vision wasn’t the vision loss itself, or even the “blind” label—it was how others were conditioned to see that label as weak or pitiful.

Using a cane or asking for help isn’t just about practicality—it’s about how others perceive you. Suddenly, people don’t see you as a whole person anymore. You’re no longer a woman, an entrepreneur, or someone with ambitions. You’re just “the blind woman.” Blindness became the headline of my story, even when I wanted it to be a footnote.

While today I have the tools to deny and break the stereotypes around the label, there was a phase where the associated definition of a ‘blind woman’ was too much for me to handle and I simply wasn’t ready for it.

How Do Blind People Cope?

Vision loss isn’t just physical—it’s emotional. For me, it mirrored the grieving process: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance, and finding meaning. But honestly —it wasn’t neat or linear.

1. Denial: The Years I Lost to Avoidance

In the early years, I refused to accept that blindness was my reality. I stubbornly clung to what I could still do, ignoring the tools and resources that could’ve helped me reclaim even more.

2. Acceptance and Adaptation: My Turning Point

Acceptance didn’t happen overnight. It started when my sister-in-law and brother introduced me to screen readers at 25. That one tool was a game-changer, opening doors I hadn’t even realized were closed.

With each adaptation, I gained more confidence. I started using a white cane, listening to audiobooks, and asking strangers for help when needed. Instead of seeing blindness as a loss, I began seeing it as an opportunity to reinvent myself.

Final Thoughts

So, what’s it like to be blind? For me, it’s been a journey of loss, discovery, and growth. It’s about rejecting stereotypes, embracing change, and finding joy in the messy process of figuring it all out.

Blindness isn’t the end of the story—it’s just a new chapter. And like any good story, it’s up to me to write the rest.