Low vision is a strange in-between place to live. I am 89% blind, which sounds like a lot to most people, but it is not enough to move through the world without hesitation. It is not enough to catch every facial expression, read every sign, or notice every subtle shift in someone’s body language. For this Meet Me Monday, I want to share what it feels like — not just physically, but emotionally. The sadness that comes with it is quiet and constant, like background noise you can never fully turn off. What hurts most is not always what I cannot see, but how people respond to what they think I cannot see.
One of the hardest parts is the silence. I hear it in the grocery store, at community events, in everyday passing moments. I hear parents gently shushing their children when they notice me. “Shhh, don’t stare.” “Don’t ask.” Their voices drop to a whisper, as if curiosity is something shameful. But the silence that follows is deafening to me. It creates distance where there could have been understanding. I wish those parents knew I would welcome the questions. Children are naturally curious — and to learn is to be curious, to ask questions, to look for answers. When adults silence that curiosity, they silence connection. I would rather hear an honest, “Why does she use that?” than feel the weight of avoidance. Questions open doors. Silence closes them.
Low vision also means navigating spaces that are not always designed with me in mind. There are people who simply do not move, even when they see me approaching carefully, trying to gauge depth and distance. Crowded sidewalks and tight aisles can feel like obstacle courses. When someone refuses to shift even a step to the side, it makes an already difficult path harder. It may seem small to them, but to me it can mean the difference between steady footing and disorientation. I am constantly calculating — light, shadow, motion, contrast — things many people never have to think about.
Then there are the moments that shake your confidence. I remember being at the airport, a year ago, as I tired and trying to focus in the harsh lighting. I handed a cashier what I believed was the correct bill for a $22 purchase, I believed I had handed him $50.00, I couldn’t clearly see the denomination, but I trusted the process. The cashier began handing me back a few ones, and a few fives. It didn’t immediately register that I had given him a $100 bill. I simply couldn’t see it clearly enough to catch the mistake. The lady behind me noticed and spoke up, telling me what was happening. I was grateful for her honesty, but the experience left a lingering ache. In that moment, I felt vulnerable — aware of how easily someone could take advantage of what I cannot fully see.
When my vision began to fade so quickly, I didn’t fully grasp what that would mean for my independence. I knew things were getting blurrier, harder to track, but I didn’t realize my driver’s license would be taken so soon. Suddenly, driving myself — something so ordinary, so automatic — was gone. Life shifted overnight to coordinating rides with Uber, Lyft, friends, and family. In Arizona, at least, public transportation was accessible, and rideshares could take me to appointments or even deliver food when getting out felt overwhelming. Logistically, I could make it work. Emotionally, it was another story.
There is a particular fear that comes with losing your sight. It’s not dramatic; it’s steady and rational. For a woman, there is already that quiet awareness in the back of your mind — the understanding that you must always assess your surroundings, always calculate risk. Add low vision to that, and the volume on that fear turns up. I was taking an Uber at least four times a week — to my appointments, to the boys’ appointments, to school events, to errands. Every single time I opened that car door, I felt myself holding my breath. I would sit down, buckle in, and silently assess the driver’s voice, tone, energy — the vibe. Was it safe? Could I relax? I wouldn’t fully exhale until I felt some sense of reassurance.
One winter evening, the boys and I went to a play in Seattle. It was a beautiful night out, and the theater was alive with energy. After the show ended, though, we couldn’t get an Uber back to the hotel. Surge pricing, delays, drivers canceling, it just wasn’t happening. So we decided to walk. Years ago, I wouldn’t have thought twice about walking through downtown Seattle at night. But that evening was different. I had my cane in one hand and was guiding two young boys through crowded sidewalks in the dark. The city felt louder, shadows felt deeper, and every unfamiliar sound seemed amplified.
We tried to stay close to the crowd because there is safety in numbers, especially on a busy night. Still, my senses were on high alert. I was calculating every step — uneven pavement, sudden movements, people brushing past. It felt far more alarming than it once would have. Yet something unexpected happened along the way. On each block, a Seattle Police Department officer stood watching down through the market. As we passed, each one radioed ahead to the next. Every officer greeted us, asked if we were alright, and waited just long enough to be sure we were steady before signaling the next block.
In a moment where fear could have completely taken over, there was also quiet protection. I still felt the vulnerability. I still felt the weight of being responsible for my boys while navigating darkness with limited sight. But I also felt seen — not as a target, but as someone worth watching over. And that made all the difference.
Another part of losing my vision that people may not immediately see is the shame and embarrassment I had to overcome. The physical adjustment was one thing — learning to use a cane, navigating spaces differently, asking for help — but the emotional adjustment was just as heavy. At first, I was deeply afraid that my boys would be embarrassed of me. I worried about what their friends at school would think when they saw their mom with a cane, moving more slowly, squinting to read name tags or classroom signs. In the beginning, I think it did affect them a little. There was some hesitation, a quiet awareness that we were different. But children are far more resilient than we give them credit for. It wasn’t long before they were completely fine. They still wanted me at school. They still wanted me to volunteer, to show up, to be present in whatever ways I could. What I feared would push them away didn’t. If anything, it strengthened us.
What was harder was navigating the reactions of adults. There was someone who had once been a significant part of my life who brushed off my vision loss as though I were making a mountain out of a molehill, as if I were exaggerating what was happening to me. When we were in public together, they would question whether I really needed my cane. They would suggest I just hold onto their arm instead, so I “wouldn’t draw attention.” That phrase stuck with me. Wouldn’t draw attention. As if the real problem wasn’t my safety or my independence, but how it looked to others.
In those moments, I felt small. I felt dramatic. I questioned myself. Was I overreacting? Did I really need the cane every time? Shame has a way of creeping in quietly like that. It makes you doubt your own lived experience. It tells you that minimizing your needs will make other people more comfortable. And for a while, I listened. I tried to make myself smaller. I tried to be less noticeable.
Everything began to shift when I went to Virginia to visit Kat. From the moment I arrived, she treated my cane not as something embarrassing, but as something necessary and wise. She didn’t sigh when I unfolded it. She didn’t question whether I truly needed it. She breathed life into my sense of pride about using it. She saw it for what it was... not a symbol of weakness, but a tool that allowed me to keep moving forward with independence.
By the end of those few weeks, something inside me had changed. I was more comfortable stepping out with my cane. I felt more confident navigating stores, sidewalks, airports. I began to understand that needing assistance is not shameful. Using a tool to maintain independence is not something to hide. It is, in fact, an accomplishment. It means I am adapting. It means I am choosing to participate fully in my life rather than shrinking back from it.
If you do see me without the cane, here is what you need to know, I already know the place and layout, that I came early and set things up counting my steps from one part of the room, memorizing the table and using it as a guide. It means I am comfortable enough to "feel" my surroundings. I know that it takes me 28 steps from my front door to my mailbox, that when I put the key in I use my other hand to guide the key in to the hole, that it takes 8 steps in the middle of the night to get to the bathroom from my bed. 19 from the kitchen to the garage. It will come one day that everything in the house will have to be designed and organized and never changed or move so I can memorize my pathways and routines.
Living with low vision is not just about eyesight. It is about navigating assumptions, misunderstandings, and the quiet barriers people create. It is about wishing others would lean in instead of stepping back. I still see so much of this world in color, movement, beauty, faces of people I love. But I also see the hesitation in others, and sometimes that is the hardest thing to witness.
