What I See Clearly Now That I Can’t See Clearly

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“The most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen… they must be felt with the heart.” ~Helen Keller

I didn’t want to admit it—not to myself, not to anyone. But I am slowly going blind.

That truth is difficult to write, harder still to live. I’m seventy years old. I’ve survived war zones, illness, caregiving, and creative risks. I’ve worked as a documentary filmmaker, teacher, and mentor. But this—this quiet, gradual vanishing of sight—feels like the loneliest struggle of all.

I have moderate to advanced macular degeneration in both eyes. My right eye is nearly gone, and my …

(image)

“The most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen… they must be felt with the heart.” ~Helen Keller

I didn’t want to admit it—not to myself, not to anyone. But I am slowly going blind.

That truth is difficult to write, harder still to live. I’m seventy years old. I’ve survived war zones, illness, caregiving, and creative risks. I’ve worked as a documentary filmmaker, teacher, and mentor. But this—this quiet, gradual vanishing of sight—feels like the loneliest struggle of all.

I have moderate to advanced macular degeneration in both eyes. My right eye is nearly gone, and my left is fading. Every two weeks, I receive injections to try to preserve what vision remains. It’s a routine I now live with—and one I dread.

Living in a Vision-Centric World

We live in a world that privileges sight above all other senses.

From billboards to smartphones, from flashy design to social cues, vision is the dominant sense in American culture. If you can’t see clearly, you fall behind. You’re overlooked. The world stops making space for you.

Is one sense truly more valuable than another? Philosophically, no. But socially, yes. In this culture, blindness is feared, pitied, or ignored—not understood. And so are most disabilities.

Accessibility is often an afterthought. Accommodation, a burden. To live in a disabled body in this world is to be reminded—again and again—that your needs are inconvenient.

I think of people in other countries—millions without access to care or even diagnosis. I thank the deities, ancestors, and forces of compassion that I don’t have something worse. And I remind myself: as painful as this is, I am lucky.

But it is still bleak and painful to coexist with the physical world when it no longer sees you clearly—and when you can no longer see it.

How a Filmmaker Faces Blindness

As my sight fades, one question haunts me: How can I be a filmmaker, writer, and teacher without the eyes I once depended on?

I often think of Beethoven. He lost his hearing gradually, as I’m losing my sight. A composer who could no longer hear—but still created. Still transmitted music. Still found beauty in silence.

I understand his despair—and his devotion. No, I’m not Beethoven. But I am someone whose life has been shaped by visual storytelling. And now I must learn to shape it by feel, by memory, by trust.

I rely on accessibility tools. I listen to every word I write. I use audio cues, screen readers, and my own internal voice. I still write in flow when I can—but more slowly, word by word. I revise by sound. I rebuild by sense. I write proprioceptively—feeling the shape of a sentence in my fingers and breath before it lands on the screen.

It’s not efficient. But it’s alive. And in some ways, it’s more honest than before.

Try ordering groceries with low vision. Tiny gray text on a white background. Menus with no labels. Buttons you can’t find. After ten minutes, I give up—not just on the website, but on dinner, on the day.

This is what disabil