Seeing Beyond the Blinders

Finding Beauty in What We Overlook

At first, I was just frustrated. After my biopsy, I expected some swelling, but I didn’t anticipate just how much my vision would be affected. My world had quite literally shrunk. The loss of my peripheral vision forced me to see only what was directly in front of me, and I hated it. It wasn’t just an inconvenience—it was disorienting, unsettling, even exhausting.

This morning, I felt that frustration creeping back in—not just about my vision, but about my inability to do more. I was irritated at myself, impatient, restless. But then I stopped and asked myself a simple, but critical question: Why?

Why was I so frustrated? Nobody expected anything from me. Everyone around me understood that I was recovering. So why couldn’t I give myself that same permission?

Instead of sitting in that frustration, I made a choice. I went into my fire room, built a fire, positioned my chair so that I had a clear view of my backyard, and decided to just be. Not plan, not push, not try to accomplish—just sit and reflect in the moment.

The warmth of the fire flickered across my skin, the crackling wood filling the silence. I took a deep breath, letting the moment settle around me. And that simple act—allowing myself to pause—shifted something. Instead of being trapped in what I couldn’t do, I focused on what I could.

I picked up my phone and used voice dictation to start conversations with a few friends, engaging with them in a way I normally wouldn’t have. I asked them about parts of their lives that I had overlooked, details I had somehow missed. And what I got in return was a connection. 

I learned things I had never known before, things I likely would have never asked about had I not been forced into this slower, more intentional way of being.

And then, something unexpected happened.

As I sat in my chair, simply being in the moment, my phone chimed with a text message. It was from a friend who had attended my speech at the library the other weekend. He was checking in on me. That alone was meaningful—not just that he had reached out, but that he had shown up to support me in the first place.

I hadn’t seen him in nearly fifty years. Sure, we had exchanged pleasantries on Facebook, keeping up with bits and pieces of each other’s lives through posts and photos. But as I started to respond to his message, it hit me: I actually knew nothing about what his life had entailed over the past five decades.

So, instead of a quick reply, I asked him a simple but important question: What’s your story?

Using the voice dictation feature on my phone, I was able to keep my eyes closed as we talked, listening with full attention. What followed was an unexpected and deeply engaging conversation—one that might never have happened had I not been in this slower, more intentional frame of mind.

It was a reminder of how easy it is to think we know people when, in reality, we’ve only scratched the surface.

Blinders: The Unseen Limits We Place on Ourselves

For most of my life, I’ve valued situational awareness. Whether it was from years of sports or just an ingrained need to always have a sense of control, my peripheral vision was essential to me. I liked knowing what was around me. I needed to see the whole picture. Losing vision in one eye feels like half my world has been cut away. And the worst part? I can’t zoom out to take it all in like I normally would.

That’s when I realized we all go through life with blinders on.

Not just in a physical sense, but mentally, emotionally, and even spiritually. We create routines that make us feel comfortable, assume we already understand the world around us, and stop paying attention to anything outside of our immediate focus. We see only what we expect to see.

And that means we miss a lot.

What Are We Not Seeing?

The brain is designed for efficiency, constantly filtering out what it deems unnecessary so we can focus on what matters—or at least, what we think matters. But what if that filtering is costing us more than we realize? How often do we walk past the same trees, the same streets, the same familiar landscapes, assuming we’ve already taken in all there is to see? How many quiet acts of kindness go unnoticed because we’re too caught up in our own routines? And what about the people closest to us—the ones we assume we know so well? How many stories remain untold simply because we never think to ask?

Losing vision in one eye has forced me to compensate in unexpected ways. No longer able to rely solely on sight, I find myself listening more carefully, noticing the nuances in voices and the subtle shifts in sound around me. My sense of balance has adjusted, making me more aware of movement and space in ways I once took for granted. And through this, I’ve come to realize something bigger: maybe seeing isn’t just about the eyes. Maybe it’s about attention.

Shifting Focus: Finding Beauty in What’s Beyond Sight

I don’t want to just adapt to this temporary situation—I want to learn from it. If I can’t take in the whole picture right now, then maybe it’s time to experience the world in a different way. Without the full use of my vision, I’ve started paying closer attention to sound—the rustling of the wind through the trees, the distinct way different surfaces respond underfoot, the subtle shifts in tone when someone speaks. I’ve also begun to experience the world more deliberately through touch, noticing the rough texture of bark beneath my fingers or the way the ground subtly shifts as I walk.

Beyond the physical, this experience has also made me question how often I see the world out of habit rather than intention. Even when my vision fully returns, I don’t want to fall back into taking it for granted. I want to look at familiar places as if they are new again, to notice the details I might have once overlooked. And perhaps most importantly, I want to bring this same awareness to the people around me. Just today, I had a conversation with my daughter that revealed aspects of her I had never thought to ask about before. I reconnected with an old friend, not just as a figure from my past but as the person he is now. It makes me wonder how many stories, perspectives, and histories are waiting just beneath the surface, ready to be discovered—if only we take the time to truly see them.

Conclusion: The Call to See More

This experience has been humbling, but it’s also been an opportunity. It’s made me wonder: how many of us walk through life seeing only part of the picture—not because we have to, but because we don’t know any other way?

Blinders serve a purpose. They help us focus. They keep us from being overwhelmed. But they can also limit us. The question is: Are the blinders we wear helping us—or holding us back?

Maybe the real challenge isn’t just to see what’s right in front of us. Maybe it’s to train ourselves to notice what’s been there all along, just beyond our usual line of sight. Because sometimes, the most beautiful things in life aren’t the ones we expect to see—they’re the ones we discover when we finally take off the blinders.

Thom