Still seeing in the dark.

es, I feel things, and hear sounds in my dreams.   Amazing Huh?   This morning, everything outside was bright and sunny. I could feel the warmth coming in through the window, the kind of sunlight that makes the air feel a little more alive. But inside—what I “see” in my mind—it was just plain heavy gray. No colors, no shapes, just that dense gray background I’ve come to know so well. The only movement was from very thin stringers, drifting ever so slowly, like wisps of something I can’t quite name. They didn’t glow or flash. They just moved, quietly and almost imperceptibly. And the doves—ugh. Just music, ever so beautiful to my ears. Their gentle cooing filled the silence like a soft lullaby, grounding me in the present moment. Then, hearing my best friend’s voice before my coffee, late this morning? Priceless. It lit something in me before the caffeine ever had the chance. So why the darkness? Why such thin stringers, ever so slowly moving about? I don’t get it. ...

Chapter 4 Last night, the reddish-orange light was so bright, so intense, it filled everything. I couldn’t even tell when I’d closed my eyes—the usual dark reddish-brown I expect was nowhere to be found. It was just light, bold and burning, like a fire behind my eyelids. By morning, the world inside me had settled. The brightness faded back into its usual heavy grey, with slow-floating yellow shapes drifting through the fog. And now, as I sit quietly, the darker reddish-brown edges have returned—faint but grounding—like the calm after a storm. Right now, I see yellow floaters swimming lazily through that grey space, with a soft peach tint in the background. It’s quiet, gentle, almost dreamlike. People ask me, “What are you up to?” It’s a casual question. A way to check in. And I answer casually too—“Oh, just chilling. Writing on my disability page. Sipping some coffee.” It’s true, but it’s not the full truth. What I don’t say is that while I sip that coffee, I’m watching y...

Very late last night—after 11 PM—something changed. All day long, the outside world had been bright. The sun was shining, people were moving, and everything looked alive. But inside, where my own vision lives, everything stayed dark. Heavy. Still. Then, just when the world got quiet… the light came back. A soft, bright yellow started glowing in the dark, and the floaters came in gently. Not rushing, not flashing—just moving easily, like they belonged there. I laid there wondering, why now? Why did it wait all day, only to return at night, just when everything around me was still? But it didn’t stop there. The brightness stayed with me into this morning, while I had some sweet quiet time with my stepdad—talking and listening to music together. And it stayed while I spent time talking with my friends, too. Even now, as I write this, it’s still here with me. I don’t always understand why it comes and goes. But when it returns, it’s like a gift—reminding me that even in the dark, the...

It’s still dark inside. Since I wrote my last post, not much has changed. The vivid colors I used to see in my internal world—the deep purples, the fiery reds, the glowing light—they’re still gone. What’s left is a slow yellow floating across a heavy, dark gray. And silence. And stillness. But I’ve been sitting with it. Not rushing it. Not trying to force the colors back. Just waiting. Watching. Because maybe this is not a loss. Maybe it’s a pause. Maybe my internal world is doing what the earth does at night—resting. Maybe my spirit, my vision, my mind… are simply making space for something new to form. Something I haven’t seen yet. The yellow is still here. It moves slowly, but it moves. It hasn’t disappeared. And that means something. Yellow has always felt like light to me. Like hope. Like a sign that the door hasn’t closed, not fully. Something is still alive inside this darkness. Something is still trying to reach me. On the outside, I’m okay. I’ve been clearing out...

Lately, I’ve noticed something unsettling—something I’ve never quite felt before. Everything inside me is still dark. Not just the outside world—I’ve been living in total blindness for a long time, with no eyes and no physical sight. But I’ve always had an eternal visual world inside me. I see colors and shapes without needing to see the outside. That world has been my comfort. My light. My truth. But something has changed. The bright colors are gone. No vivid reds. No deep purples. No glowing white light. Just a heavy, unmoving gray— with yellow barely floating through, and even that is slow and dull. I don’t know where the rest of it went. I don’t know why it’s not coming back. And it’s confusing, because on the outside , I’m doing fine. I actually feel excited. Today, I’ve been cleaning up my bedroom—throwing out old Braille magazines that I don’t need anymore, making space, clearing out clutter. It feels good. Like a fresh start. A reset. I’m smiling, I’m grounded, I’...

This evening, everything is still dark—except for some yellow floating through. I don’t know why it feels so dim inside visually, but despite that, I actually feel pretty good. My legs are sore, but that’s because I danced a lot yesterday at the party—and honestly, I don’t regret it one bit. That kind of joy is worth a little soreness. Earlier this afternoon, before I took my nap, I was on the phone with my best friend, her boyfriend, and his roommate. We were catching up, sharing updates, and enjoying the company. Her boyfriend’s roommate even jumped in to talk about why we should mute our phones during Bible study, so people can focus better when someone is speaking or reading. It was meaningful. It felt like we were all in sync. But then—suddenly—my best friend said, “Kamala, can I call you back please?” And right after that, her boyfriend’s roommate started laughing. I don’t know what that was all about, but it made me feel uneasy—like something had shifted in the energy of...

Today was supposed to be a simple task. Just one small goal: get my Blogger posts to automatically share on my Facebook Disability page using IFTTT. It sounded so easy—just connect a few services, click a few buttons, and let the automation do the rest. Instead, it turned into a long, frustrating ordeal. I followed all the steps. I connected Blogger to IFTTT. I linked it to my Facebook Page. I created triggers and actions, tested feeds, read logs, and waited. And waited. And waited. I posted a simple test blog—nothing fancy. Just a quick message saying this was only a test to see if it would show up on my Facebook page. But nothing showed up. Not after five minutes. Not after fifteen. Not after checking the feed again, refreshing IFTTT, or reviewing all the settings that were supposedly “on” and “connected.” I double-checked my feed URL. I made sure Facebook Pages was connected, not just my personal profile. I tried using the regular feed trigger. I tried using one that asked for k...

This is just another testing post. I’m just trying to work this out everybody. Thanks for baring with me. 

Sorry guys, this is not a regular post, This is just a testing post to see if this post will post to my Facebook Disability page. So, please just bare with me. 

Yesterday was one of those days I’ll hold close for a long time. I spent it with my friends from Just People at a pool party, and it was such a beautiful time. The air was warm, the music was fun, and laughter was everywhere. I could hear the splashing, the joy in people’s voices, and the sound of summer all around me. I didn’t need to see to feel the happiness in that space. I could hear it, feel it in the energy of the people I love being around. That’s one of my favorite things about the Just People community—we really show up for each other, not just with our presence, but with our full hearts. There was dancing, talking, joking, music... I could feel the sunshine on my skin and the water splashing nearby. One of my friends guided me near the pool to dip my feet in. I laughed as the cool water surprised me, and they laughed too. It was just pure, real, easy joy. And when the evening came, that joy stayed with me. I carried it back with me like a warm glow wrapped around my spiri...

Today was simple, but full of peace. I took some time to rest, reflect, and just breathe. Sometimes, the quiet moments are the ones that remind me how far I’ve come—and how much beauty there is in just being . I’m so grateful for everyone who follows my journey. Your support means everything. 💛 Looking forward to sharing more very soon!  

This afternoon, I laid down for a quick nap around 1:45 P.M., expecting nothing more than a short rest. But what I woke up to was something completely different. I came out of sleep with my heart pounding so fast I could barely breathe. I felt like I was choking, like something had taken over my whole body. My breathing was heavy and fast—I was trying to calm myself down, trying to get my heart to slow, but it wouldn’t. I had to lie there for several minutes, focusing just on staying still and breathing gently until everything finally settled. Alongside that intense physical feeling, something else showed up—something familiar but still strange. I started seeing this internal visual: a beige background, filled with soft, floating orange-yellow shapes. It wasn’t from the outside world. It was inside, just like so many of the things I see. My body had gone into full panic mode, and somehow my mind responded with color. Beige and orange-yellow drifted across the inside of my awareness, ...

For a long time, I kept a part of my experience to myself—because I didn’t think anyone would understand it. Not even my family. I’m totally blind. I also live with hearing loss. And sometimes, when everything is quiet—especially at night—I hear things that aren’t really there. It’s not all the time, and it’s not always scary, but it can be confusing. Like hearing a faraway voice echoing in a movie… only the movie isn’t playing. The house is silent. But I still hear it—soft voices, knocking, even someone calling my name. And it feels real in the moment. What’s strange is, I know my hearing is damaged. I can miss real voices in the daytime, miss people calling me when the door’s closed or when I have headphones on. And yet, at night, these phantom sounds come in so clearly—more clearly than real life sometimes. It’s like my brain is trying to make sense of the quiet, and instead, it fills it with things that aren’t there. For a long time, I kept this part of my life hidden because I...

Lately, I’ve been getting so frustrated. The court keeps sending me letters, pushing me to serve jury duty—even though I’ve already submitted a doctor’s letter saying that I am totally blind, hearing impaired, and on disability. My doctor even wrote that I’m unable to participate due to my medical condition. But apparently, that’s not enough. She didn’t go into every single detail. Why? Because she legally can’t—HIPAA protects my private medical information. And now the court is rejecting her letter because it doesn’t spell out every little thing, like I owe them some full-body explanation to be believed. Let me be clear: I am totally blind. I have no eyes. I also live with hearing loss. I rely on sound cues, memory, my hands, my other senses—every day. And it’s exhausting sometimes, even in familiar places. Now imagine being called into a courtroom, where everything depends on seeing: Who stood up to speak? What kind of gesture did they just make? Who are they pointing ...

This morning started off in the best possible way. The sun was already shining, the air was warm, and I could feel that early summer softness surrounding everything. I shared music and a movie with my stepdad over coffee—a quiet, comforting kind of joy that doesn’t need a lot of words. I hadn’t heard from my best friend overnight like I sometimes do, but just as I was getting ready to watch our movie, she texted me. I smiled and held on to that moment, even though I didn’t reply right away. After the movie ended, I wrote her back and apologized for the late text. Then I hopped into the shower, feeling that sense of wholeness only a good morning can bring. And all throughout—before, during, and after—it’s been glowing. That same deep, burning yellow has been all around me. So vivid it felt like it was filling the whole room, with floaters to match. Earlier this morning, between two and four, the color was a beige kind of softness, with the yellow starting to move in like early sunligh...

Tonight, the colors won’t sit still. They’re jumping all over the place, shifting depending on where I am in the house. When I walk into the bathroom or into my mom’s bedroom, everything fills with a bright gray light . It’s not coming from a lamp or a window—it’s just there , inside my mind, surrounding me like mist. Soft but glowing. Familiar, but unpredictable. Then I move to my own room or step out onto the front porch, and suddenly the colors change again. This time, it’s light blue in the center , surrounded by darker shades around the edges, like I’m standing in the middle of a spotlight, but it’s not a spotlight anyone else can see. Just me. Just my version of sight. Right now as I sit with all of this, I see a thick blue line stretching across my mind’s eye. It’s like a stripe—solid and wide. Around it, the edges stay dark, but slow yellow floaters drift in and out, moving almost like they’re swimming in molasses. I don’t know why they come. I don’t know why they go. But ...

Chapter 4 Last night, the reddish-orange light was so bright, so intense, it filled everything. I couldn’t even tell when I’d closed my eyes—the usual dark reddish-brown I expect was nowhere to be found. It was just light, bold and burning, like a fire behind my eyelids. By morning, the world inside me had settled. The brightness faded back into its usual heavy grey, with slow-floating yellow shapes drifting through the fog. And now, as I sit quietly, the darker reddish-brown edges have returned—faint but grounding—like the calm after a storm. Right now, I see yellow floaters swimming lazily through that grey space, with a soft peach tint in the background. It’s quiet, gentle, almost dreamlike. People ask me, “What are you up to?” It’s a casual question. A way to check in. And I answer casually too—“Oh, just chilling. Writing on my disability page. Sipping some coffee.” It’s true, but it’s not the full truth. What I don’t say is that while I sip that coffee, I’m watching y...

Before the colors. Before the shift to deep purple. Before the floaters and the voice of my best friend— There was music. I sat with my stepdad, sharing a slow and beautiful morning over coffee. Sweet music filled the room—songs from Chicago , full of brass and soul, and tracks from A Flock of Seagulls , echoing with memories and light. We thought about putting on Phil Collins, but the mood was already perfect. So we stayed with Chicago. And Flock of Seagulls. We talked, relaxed, and just let the songs take us somewhere softer. There was no rush. Just warmth. And comfort. It wrapped around me like a gentle blanket before the day even began. That space—between conversation and music, between peace and presence—carried into everything that followed. When the purple came, it didn’t feel sudden. It felt like a continuation. Like the music had laid the path for forgiveness, softness, and connection to flow through me. It reminded me that even the smallest things—like coffee and a saxopho...

Last night, everything changed again. What started as soft, glowing light purple slowly deepened—turned into a rich, dark purple. And through it all, tiny yellow floaters moved gently through the space, like little sparks of light guiding me somewhere new. The shift wasn’t scary. It was warm. It was comforting. And it felt full of meaning. We talked about how purple means forgiveness, and I felt that. Deeply. Like something inside me let go. Then this morning, before she stepped into her shower to get ready for her long day program, I heard my best friend’s voice—just for a moment. It was real. Clear. Like a gift. She’ll be gone until nine tonight because of a Just People meeting, but that voice, in that quiet space between sleep and waking, meant everything. Sometimes my world is full of colors no one else can see. Sometimes it’s full of voices others would swear I imagined. But to me, it’s all part of how I connect—with people I love, with the past and present, with something hig...

This morning was beautiful. Not because of anything fancy happening online. Not because of Facebook allowing me to speak—because it didn’t. But because of something much better: real moments, real light, and real love . I woke up to the kind of internal sight that only I can see, even though I have no physical eyes. It was a burning bright white , glowing from within, like a presence I can’t explain. That light slowly faded into a gray wash , and then came tiny yellow floaters , gently drifting across my inner vision like they were dancing. Peaceful. Soft. Like my soul was still dreaming even though I was wide awake. And then, like a blessing from above, I heard his voice— my nephew Ramsey . He had been upstairs helping Grandma, and came down to say hello. That boy has a way of showing up just when I need to feel grounded. We hugged tight, and before he left, I told him the truth: “You’re not allowed to go anywhere without giving me a hug. I won’t let it happen.” He laughed, an...

     Chapter One: What I See Without Eyes I don’t have eyes anymore. Not like most people. I’m totally blind. But sometimes, when I close my eyelids or sit in the dark, I see . It’s not the way most people think of seeing. It’s not shapes or faces or objects. It’s a world of color—a wild, pulsing light show behind my eyelids. At the center is a blinding white glare, like staring directly at the sun. Surrounding it float strange yellow shapes, soft and glowing like fireflies caught in a jar. The edges flicker red, like the dying embers of a fire. And behind it all lies a flat, dull gray—a silent canvas holding everything together. Sometimes, though, everything disappears. The colors vanish. The light fades to pitch black or heavy gray, swallowing my vision whole. It’s a strange kind of silence I can’t describe. But if I hold my eyelids open long enough and stare straight ahead—even when there’s nothing to see—the colors slowly return. The white flare burns bright a...

Last night during Bible study, something quietly heavy was sitting with me. My best friend was there—someone who had hurt me earlier this week. But because it was Bible study, I didn’t say anything. I knew that wasn’t the time or space for that kind of conversation. So I kept it to myself. I didn’t even mention it to my family. Instead, I focused on something that filled me with light. I had just finished working on my disability page and my blog— Still Seeing in the Dark. It’s something I’ve poured my heart into, and even though I was running late for Bible study, I felt proud of what I had created. When I told Pastor Amazing Allis about my blog, I gave her the name, the link, and asked her to follow me. Her reaction lit me up inside. She couldn’t have sounded happier for me. She was genuinely excited, and it made me feel so proud of myself—so seen in a new, beautiful way. I told her that’s why I was late to Bible study—because I was working on that blog and on my disabilit...

Seeing Without Eyes: My Eternal Light I’ve never told anyone this part of my story before—not really. Not in full. But recently, I had a deep conversation with my grandma that helped me realize it’s finally time to open up. She had just finished her morning Bible reading and said something to me that stopped me in my tracks. “Kamala,” she said, “I want to share this verse with you—it’s about God giving us eternal light.” Tears welled up in my eyes. I took a deep breath and told her, “Grandma… that’s exactly what I’ve been experiencing.” I told her how, even though I’m totally blind—and I don’t have eyes at all—I still see . Not in the traditional sense. Not with my body. But inside my mind, I see lights. Bright, vibrant, sometimes overwhelming colors. I’ve seen brilliant pinks, flashes of fire-orange, glowing yellows floating across grey, and even bold reds with hot white centers. It’s not imagined. It’s vivid, and it’s real to me. Some nights, these colors light up my entire int...

It’s now a brighter pinkish purple—so bright, I can almost feel a bit of heat coming from it, like sunshine is beaming straight into my eyes. But there is no sunshine. There’s no light in the room. There’s no glow in the sky. There are no eyes on my face. That’s right—I’m totally blind. And yet, here it is. A radiant, glowing pinkish purple filling my inner world. It’s not just a color—it’s an experience. It shines from inside, with a reddish hue gently edging its way back into view. It’s soft, yet strong. Beautiful, and somehow alive. No one else can see this color—but to me, it’s so real I can feel it. Some people say blindness is darkness. But today, it’s pinkish purple. And it’s glorious.   Brilliant hot pink, Morning Coffee, and Yellow floaters. It’s late in the day, but I’ve been up on and off—lingering in bed, eating a late breakfast, and listening to The Right Time by Danielle Steel. And all the while, one thing has stayed with me: a brilliant, almost overwhelming...

 I just woke up from an afternoon nap, and a thunderstorm is brewing outside. But inside my mind, something just as vivid is happening. The soft pinkish-purple I was seeing earlier is still here, but now it’s being joined by little yellow floaters drifting through. Earlier today, it was just the pinkish purple glow behind reddish eyelids—calm, warm, and quiet. But now the atmosphere feels like it’s shifting, as if the storm outside is stirring something inside me too.

🌸 Blog Post: Still Seeing Purple 🌸 It’s pinkish-purple right now, with a deeper purple outlining the edges. Around the areas where my eyelids would be, there’s a reddish glow—but it’s gentle, not harsh. And honestly? It feels amazing. Purple happens to be one of my very favorite colors. My stepdad and I were just talking about beautiful colors—what they mean, what they symbolize. We had one of those warm, thoughtful conversations about the way colors are tied to the seasons: which ones feel like spring, which ones bring happiness in the fall, and everything in between. Maybe that conversation brought on today’s color. Maybe the joy of simply connecting with someone who understands me helped shift what I see inside. Because I feel so much better today—and I’m very happy. That rich, glowing purple feels like it’s wrapping around me like a blanket of calm. A soft sign that yes, even without eyes, I’m still seeing something beautiful. — Blog: Still Seeing in the Dark 2025