Meet Me Monday Seeing What I Can, While I Can.

This Weeknd, as I baked cupcakes for my boys’ birthday, I felt the weight of time in a way I hadn’t before. For eight years now, I’ve made it my tradition to bake their cakes and cupcakes myself — a simple joy that became something sacred to me. Before that, I was the mom who picked up store-bought ones, rushing through the motions, trying to make everything look perfect. But somewhere along the line, in the middle of messy kitchens and frosting-stained counters, I found peace in the ritual. The smell of sugar in the air, the tiny fingerprints in the batter, the laughter that spilled from the next room — all of it was mine to soak in.

But this year was different.

As I stood there trying to see clearly, squinting at the mixing bowl, I realized just how much my world has changed. My vision isn’t what it was even a year ago. What used to be easy now feels like walking through fog. And in that moment, I felt something in me shift — not just frustration, but grief. 

A few weeks ago, I had my eighth eye surgery. Eighth. I’ve learned how to carry hope in one pocket and disappointment in the other, because they seem to live side by side these days. This time, though, the conversation was different. The doctor was gentle but honest — there’s not much more they can do. I’ll  keep going in every few months, but now, it’s about preserving what’s left.

He told me to make a list of the things I want to see.
To practice talk-to-text more.
To do everything I can to keep my A1C steady.

It’s strange, being told to make a list of what you want to see before it’s gone. I sat with that for a while — the idea that I might one day have to rely on memory to revisit the faces I love most. That I may never watch my boys walk across the stage at their high school graduation, or see them standing in tuxedos at their weddings, or look into the eyes of my future grandbabies. The thought of that brings a deep, quiet ache — the kind that lingers behind your ribs and breathes with you.

I’ve noticed I get frustrated more easily these days — not just at the world, but at myself. And sometimes, that frustration spills over and looks like irritation toward the people who are only trying to help me. It’s not anger at them; it’s the helplessness of needing them. The surrender of independence I didn’t choose to give up. I’ve always been strong, capable, the one who handles things. Letting others guide me through this season feels like both a relief and a heartbreak.

It’s a strange place to exist — between acceptance and resistance. Between gratitude for what I still have and mourning what I’m losing.

I know that when people see me online — on my blog, on social media, or when I attend events — I probably look polished and put together. My makeup’s done, my hair is brushed, and I’m smiling. On the surface, it looks effortless. But what most people don’t see is what’s happening just beyond the frame.

In person, you’ll almost always see me with someone — a friend, a family member, someone I trust to help me navigate the world as it looks to me now. You might notice my seeing-eye cane, the one that helps me keep my balance and avoid tripping or falling. In unfamiliar places, I count the length of rooms, feel for the edges of tables, and hold onto walls or chairs to stay grounded. It’s become second nature, this dance between independence and needing help.

I can still see shapes and movement, but not clearly enough to know if something dangerous is in my path — curbs, potholes, uneven sidewalks, the shimmer of rain on pavement that hides where the ground dips. Patterns on carpets, especially the dizzying swirls in places like hotels or casinos, can completely throw me off balance. I have to move slower, more carefully, and sometimes, that alone is exhausting.

When I hosted the boys’ birthday party over the weekend, I pushed myself harder than I should have. I wanted everything to be perfect — the decorations, the laughter, the little details that make a memory last. But by the end of it, my body reminded me of its limits. I’ve learned that after days like that, I’ll need to rest for several days after. That’s just the rhythm of my life now — moments of pushing through, followed by surrender.  I know these things I took for granted like hosting a birthday party for the boys will one day come to an end, where I won't be able to push so hard to make things "perfect" 

It’s hard, living with the version of yourself that exists in the world’s eyes and the one that exists behind closed doors. I often show people the polished version — the one that’s photoshopped by good lighting, makeup, and carefully chosen words. But underneath, there’s the version of me who is tired, hollowed out, fighting her own body while still trying to hold onto the pieces of who she used to be.

Sometimes, I forget her — the woman I was before all of this. Writing brings her back to me. When I write this blog, when I work on stories for the paper, when I go to a play or a game, or wander through the streets of my city — I get to feel like her again. The one who sees with her heart first. The one who believes that connection and art and community are still worth chasing, even in the blur.

So that’s what I’ll keep doing. I’ll keep packing my life full on the days I can — seeing what I can, feeling what I can, loving what I can. And when my body betrays me, when I have to stop and rest, I’ll try to give myself the grace I so freely give to others.

And I hope you’ll give me that same grace too — so that maybe, slowly, I can learn to give it to myself. It’s a strange place to exist — between acceptance and resistance. Between gratitude for what I still have and mourning what I’m losing.

But even in this in-between space, I find myself clinging harder to the moments that matter. The sound of my boys laughing. The warmth of the oven door opening. The way light filters through the window in the morning. The feeling of their arms around me when they say, “Mom, you did great.” Those are things I can still feel — and they’re every bit as beautiful as what I can see.

So I’ll celebrate big. I’ll bake the cupcakes, even if it takes longer. Even if the frosting that once could get a blue ribbon at the local county fair looks like a toddler decorated them. I’ll take the pictures, even if they’re blurry. I’ll sit close and memorize the details — their smiles, their voices, their chaos and their joy — because these moments are the big things.

The truth is, I don’t know what’s ahead. But I do know this: I’m still here, still seeing what I can, while I can.

And maybe that’s enough for today.