Therapy Bits

Today was, in most ways, much like any other. I woke, I dressed, I brewed my coffee by touch and memory, and I listened to the chorus of morning sounds outside my window—a world coming to life beyond my reach, yet never beyond my presence. There is a quiet rhythm to these days, each one threaded together by routines both comforting and mundane. Yet it strikes me how often others view my life through a lens distorted by assumption, one that transforms my existence into a headline: “Blind, but an Inspiration.”

I want to write about that word—inspiration—and all the ways it clings to me, unwanted and uninvited, like a label stitched into the fabric of my identity. Sometimes it feels as though the world mistakes living with blindness for something extraordinary, as though my ability to make toast or navigate city streets is a feat worthy of applause. I know this is meant to be kind, to uplift, to encourage, but it leaves me feeling unseen in the most essential, human sense.

It’s not that I dislike the word inspiration itself. I have been inspired many times—by the quiet patience of a friend waiting for me to find the right words, by the laughter of children on a playground, by the resilience of those who have weathered storms far harsher than my own. Inspiration, in its true form, is a spark passed between souls, igniting possibilities, kindling hope. But when the world looks at me, I sometimes sense that the inspiration they see is not a spark, but a spotlight—harsh, glaring, and isolating.

I remember a time last winter when I was grocery shopping. My cane tapped along the tiles, mapping the aisles in gentle arcs. I filled my basket with the familiar: bread, eggs, apples, a bar of chocolate for the evenings. At the checkout, the cashier looked at me, her voice brimming with pride she seemed to feel on my behalf. “You’re such an inspiration,” she said, as she scanned each item. “I don’t know how you do it.”

How I do it? The same way you do, I wanted to say. By habit, by necessity, by the routines that shape a life. I didn’t scale a mountain to get here. I needed groceries.

There are moments, I confess, when I wish I could pull back the curtain and reveal the ordinariness of my life in all its shades: the laundry unfolded on the armchair, the times I lose my keys and curse under my breath, the late-night snacks I regret the next morning. There is nothing heroic in these moments—just a person, getting by, sometimes with grace, sometimes in frustration.

I’ve learned to sense the weight of expectation in certain spaces. When I meet someone new and they discover I am blind, I can almost hear the shift in their tone, the questions edged with awe. “How do you manage?” “You must be so brave.” And underlying it all, the implication: to live with blindness is to live heroically, endlessly overcoming.

But the truth is simpler and far less remarkable. I adapt. I adjust. I struggle, sometimes. I laugh, I grieve, I love. My blindness is neither a prison nor a superpower—it’s a facet of my experience, as much a part of me as my stubbornness, my fondness for music, or my delight in good conversation.

I wonder, sometimes, why the world is so quick to seek inspiration in disability. Is it because people fear what they do not understand? Is it a way to distance themselves from vulnerability—by transforming the unfamiliar into something noble, rather than merely different? I do not have all the answers. What I know is that the word “inspiration” can serve as both compliment and cage.

I would rather be seen for who I am—complex, imperfect, wholly human—than elevated to a pedestal I never asked to climb. I want my friendships to be forged in mutual respect and affection, not out of admiration for my “overcoming.” I want my achievements to be recognized on their own merit, not filtered through assumptions about my blindness. And above all, I want permission to fail, to falter, to have bad days and lazy afternoons, without that being interpreted as a triumph or a tragedy.

There are, of course, moments when inspiration is real and mutual. I am inspired by the kindness of strangers who offer help without pity, by the designers who make technology more accessible, by the advocates who fight for equality in the classroom and the workplace. I am inspired by the unwavering support of my family, who see me not as a symbol, but as a sibling, a child, a confidant. In these connections, inspiration is not a label, but a bridge.

Tonight, as I write, the city outside has quietened. I run my fingers over the Braille keys, letting my thoughts spill onto the page. I am blind, yes, and there are challenges that come with it. There are days when frustration blooms, when I long for the ease of sight, when I tire of explaining, advocating, adapting. But there are also days of laughter, of deep contentment, of music so vivid it paints pictures only I can see.

I suppose this diary, too, is a sort of bridge—a way to invite others into my world, not as spectators seeking inspiration, but as fellow travellers on the winding road of existence. If you find anything here that moves you, let it be the recognition that we are all, in our way, navigating with imperfect maps. My blindness is neither the beginning nor the end of my story; it is simply a thread in the tapestry, woven alongside so many others.

Tomorrow, I will get up, make coffee, listen to the city, and carry on with the business of living. Not as an inspiration, but as myself.

And that, I think, is enough.

Writing Prompts – Esther Chilton