Steven LaChance Blog

Losing your eyesight as you age is terrifying. I don’t talk about it much, but every year, my vision gets worse. And with that comes a quiet panic—one that sneaks up on me in unexpected moments. Like when I struggle to read something I know I could see just fine a few months ago, or when I realize I’m squinting harder, leaning in closer, relying more on muscle memory than actual sight.

They tell me I’m now legally blind in my right eye. I don’t know what I expected blindness to feel like, but I always imagined darkness. That’s not what it is—at least, not for me. It’s blur. A constant haze, as if the world is slipping just out of reach. Things that should be sharp and defined are smudged at the edges. And low light? That’s the worst. I’ve learned to carry my phone everywhere, its flashlight my lifeline when trying to make out words on a menu, a receipt, or a sign. But even that isn’t always enough.

More often than not, Rick—my husband, my anchor—reads the menu for me. He describes the options, helps me navigate spaces where my eyes fail me. He never makes a big deal about it; he just becomes part of the rhythm of our day. I don’t know what I would do without him.

That’s the part that scares me the most—not just the loss of sight, but the loss of independence. The slow realization that I have to rely on others more and more. While I am beyond grateful for Rick and his patience, there’s a certain grief that comes with needing help for things I once did without a second thought. It’s not about pride; it’s about mourning the effortless ways life used to be, and facing the reality that change is inevitable.

Some days, I’m fine. I adapt. I memorize layouts. I trust my instincts. Other days, frustration sets in—when I drop something on the floor and spend five minutes trying to find it, when I misread a message and respond to something that wasn’t even asked, or when I struggle to recognize familiar faces in dim lighting. Those moments are humbling, raw reminders that life is fragile and ever-changing. And yet, they also teach me resilience. I’ve learned to slow down and appreciate the beauty in small victories—a perfectly aligned shelf, a softly lit room that lets me navigate with just enough clarity, a kind word from a stranger who notices my determined smile. Each setback deepens my understanding of who I am and what I’m capable of. Even in my moments of vulnerability, I find a quiet strength, a whisper of hope that reminds me I’m still here, still fighting, still living.

In embracing these challenges, I’m not surrendering to my fears but acknowledging them as part of my journey. I close each difficult day with a renewed sense of hope, knowing that every obstacle is an opportunity to learn, adapt, and rediscover the beauty of life—even when it appears blurred at the edges.

I’ve also learned to see beyond what my eyes can capture. There’s a richness to the world that transcends physical vision—a depth felt through touch, heard in the cadence of a loved one’s voice, and known in the quiet moments of introspection. Losing sight has, paradoxically, sharpened my inner vision. I notice the subtle changes in the air, the gentle shift of a conversation, and the way a familiar melody stirs memories of brighter days. This new way of seeing isn’t a consolation prize; it’s a revelation that beauty exists in layers, some of which are felt rather than seen.

Now, I share my story not to evoke pity, but to connect. To let anyone who’s facing similar battles know that there is strength in vulnerability, and that asking for help is not a weakness but a brave step toward understanding oneself better. Whatever challenges life throws your way, remember that even in the midst of loss, there is a chance to gain a deeper, more nuanced appreciation of every moment. We are all learning, adapting, and, in our own ways, finding the light that guides us through the haze.

Embrace your path and don’t hesitate to seek guidance and direction if you need help along the way. That’s the most important message I aim to convey to you – you’re not alone in this. Challenges are an integral part of the life journey we all embark on and will always be present along the way.