Therapy Bits

Navigating the world without sight is already an exercise in trust — trust in my cane, in the sounds around me, in the people who share the spaces I move through. Most days, that trust feels steady. But then there are moments when someone without much awareness or manners barrels past me, brushing or bumping into me without a word. And those moments linger.

When someone bumps into me and keeps going, it’s not just the physical jolt that stays with me — it’s the reminder that my presence wasn’t noticed, or worse, wasn’t considered worth noticing. I rely on cues others take for granted: footsteps, voices, shifts in the air. When people rush, cut close, or fail to say “excuse me,” it disrupts more than my path; it disrupts the sense of connection that helps me navigate safely and confidently.

I don’t expect perfection from strangers. I know the world moves fast, and accidents happen. But a small acknowledgment — a simple “sorry,” a gentle warning as someone approaches — goes a long way. It’s not about pity; it’s about respect. It’s about recognizing that we all share these crowded sidewalks, hallways, shops, and buses, and that a little awareness can make the world feel less hostile and more humane.

Being blind means I often move through life with heightened vulnerability, but also with resilience. I adapt, I adjust, I rebuild my mental map after every interruption. Still, I can’t help wishing that the people who bump into me would remember that their small moments of carelessness ripple outward. And that their small moments of kindness do, too.

In the end, I try to hold onto the belief that most people don’t mean harm — they just forget to look beyond their own rush. But when someone does show a bit of courtesy, it makes the world feel more navigable, not just physically, but emotionally. And those are the moments that remind me I’m not moving through this world alone.

Good Manners – Word of the Day Challenge