Therapy Bits

There are many things in life that I cannot do because I am blind, and acknowledging them is not an act of defeat but an act of honesty. It is a way of naming the boundaries that shape my everyday experience. Still, each limitation carries both frustration and unexpected meaning, because the world I move through is textured by what is unseen and what remains untouched.

One of the most difficult things is the loss of visual spontaneity. Sighted people often take for granted the simple act of glancing at something to understand it instantly. They can look across a room and recognize a friend, notice a spilled drink before they step in it, or read someone’s expression without a word being spoken. These moments—fleeting, casual, effortless—exist outside my reach. For me, understanding comes more slowly, through touch, sound, and patience. I cannot simply look to learn; I must listen to know.

There are also experiences that are inherently visual, experiences whose value lies in what the eyes alone can take in. I cannot admire a sunset in the conventional sense, nor can I watch the shifting colors of autumn leaves or the shimmer of light on water. These moments belong to an unseen realm, one that I must imagine rather than witness. Even when someone describes them to me, the description becomes my reality, not the image itself. I build a world from language rather than from sight, and though that world is rich, it is undeniably different.

There are activities I cannot participate in without assistance as well—driving, navigating unfamiliar spaces independently, reading print signs, or recognizing faces in a crowd. These tasks require visual information that is simply inaccessible to me. Sometimes these limits make me feel like I’m standing outside of a room where everyone else has already entered, relying on others to open the door. The weight of that dependence can be heavy, especially when I want nothing more than complete autonomy.

There are tactile absences too—things that remain untouched not because I cannot reach them physically, but because without sight, certain objects have no clear shape or meaning unless they are placed in my hands with context. Museums, for example, often keep their most stunning pieces behind glass, visible but not touchable. In those spaces, I am asked to appreciate what I cannot see and cannot feel. It is a strange kind of distance, one built from both caution and convention.

But understanding what I cannot do also highlights how much I can do, and how deeply. Though blindness closes certain doors, it opens others I never would have noticed. I experience the world through layers—sound, temperature, movement, memory, intuition. My limitations are real, and sometimes painful, but they also shape a unique way of living. What is blind, unseen, or untouched to me does not make my life empty; it simply makes it different. And in that difference, I continue to find meaning, resilience, and connection.

Three Things Challenge #MM249 | pensitivity101