“The most exquisite things in the universe are not visible… they must be experienced through the heart.” ~Helen Keller
I was reluctant to confront it—not to myself, nor to others. But I am gradually losing my sight.
This reality is hard to articulate, even more challenging to endure. At seventy, I’ve navigated through wars, sickness, caring for others, and creative ventures. My journey has led me through roles as a documentary filmmaker, educator, and guide. Yet this—this slow, subtle decline in vision—seems to be the most isolating battle of all.
I am experiencing moderate to severe macular degeneration in both eyes. My right eye is almost non-functional, while my left is diminishing. Every two weeks, I undergo injections to attempt to maintain whatever sight I have left. It’s a regimen I’ve come to accept—and one I dread.
Thriving in a Vision-Dominant Society
We exist in a society that places vision above all other senses.
From large advertisements to mobile devices, from eye-catching designs to social interactions, visual perception reigns supreme in American culture. If your sight is impaired, you lag behind. You become invisible. The world ceases to accommodate your presence.
Is one sense inherently more important than another? Philosophically, no. But in practice, yes. In this environment, blindness is often met with fear, pity, or neglect—not understanding. The same holds true for many disabilities.
Consideration for accessibility is frequently an afterthought. Providing accommodations feels burdensome. Living with a disability in this society serves as a constant reminder that your requirements are seen as troublesome.
I reflect on individuals in other nations—millions lacking access to healthcare or even a proper diagnosis. I express gratitude to the deities, ancestors, and compassionate forces for my situation not being worse. And I remind myself: despite the pain, I am fortunate.
Nonetheless, it remains grim and sorrowful to engage with the physical realm when it can no longer clearly recognize you—and when your own sight is waning.
A Filmmaker Confronts Blindness
As my vision diminishes, one query lingers in my mind: How can I continue as a filmmaker, writer, and educator without the eyesight I used to rely on?
I am often reminded of Beethoven. He gradually lost his hearing, much like my sight is fading. A composer who could no longer hear—but still composed. Still conveyed music. Still discovered beauty within silence.
I resonate with his anguish—and his commitment. No, I am not Beethoven. Yet, I am a person whose experiences have been molded by visual storytelling. Now, I must adapt and shape my narrative through touch, memory, and trust.
I depend on