What I'm seeing with out Eyes.

    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 again. The yellow shapes dance back into view. And I’m pulled back into this secret, private world that no one else can enter.

I didn’t realize this was happening to me until years after I had already gone blind—and after both of my eyes were removed.

Back then, I was too angry and emotional to even notice what was going on inside my head. I was angry because someone wanted to show me a beautiful picture—and I couldn’t see it. I couldn’t see the colors, the faces, the clothes people wore, or the little details that make a photo come alive. It felt like a barrier between me and the world, and I didn’t know how to cross it.

I was angry because when a thunderstorm rolled in, I couldn’t see the darkening sky or the clouds gathering. I couldn’t watch the lightning flash or feel the electricity in the air in the way I used to. The world’s colors and light had vanished, or so I thought.

That anger blinded me in a different way. It kept me from paying attention to the strange flickers of color and light that quietly began to fill the darkness behind my eyelids. I wasn’t ready to face them. I pushed those flashes away, buried them beneath my frustration and grief.

I’ve been angry about this for a long time—long before I started noticing the colors and lights inside my mind.

I hated being forced to join in on things that required seeing. Like watching movies, where all the action and emotion happened on the screen, but no one bothered to describe what was going on. I felt left out, isolated in a room full of people but disconnected from the story.

Or during exercises where the instructor spoke to the group but never explained what they were doing or showing—because it was all visual. I was expected to follow along, but without any way to understand what was happening. It made me angry, frustrated, and alone.

At one center I used to go to in Stone Mountain, Georgia, everything was centered around Christian devotionals. Every morning after breakfast, we had to participate in a devotion.

I didn’t want to be part of it—not because of the faith itself, but because I was too hurt and angry about how blindness was making me feel. I wasn’t ready to hear any more words about God or forgiveness when inside I was wrestling with pain and loss.

It felt like they were trying to make me feel guilty for not wanting to join in. Like I had a “bad attitude” just because I didn’t want any part of what they were pushing me to do.

That only made the loneliness and frustration worse. It was a reminder that sometimes, the hardest battles aren’t just with blindness itself—but with how people try to make you fit into what they think you should be.

My anger wasn’t just about blindness itself—it was about how some places treated me like I didn’t have a say in anything.

At some centers I went to, I was expected to do everything their way—or I wasn’t allowed to come at all. There was no room for me to speak up about what bothered me. It felt like being trapped.

They’d take us to the same movies, over and over. Or eat at the same fast food joints, every single time. I was tired—so tired of the sameness, the routine, the lack of respect for what I wanted.

Because I was blind, they thought I had to be their puppet. That I couldn’t decide for myself. That my voice didn’t matter.

That only made me angrier.

I wasn’t invisible. I wasn’t a problem to be managed. I was a person with thoughts, feelings, and opinions—and I wanted to be heard.

It wasn’t until years later—after all that anger, all the fights with myself and others—that I began to notice something unexpected.

One day, when I was sitting quietly, eyes closed or half-open, I saw it: flashes of color. Not the world outside, but a strange, pulsing light show behind my eyelids.

At first, I thought it was my mind playing tricks on me. Maybe a memory trying to break through the darkness. But the colors kept coming back—bright yellows like fireflies, flickering reds like embers, and that intense white flare at the center.

Sometimes everything would fade to pitch black or a heavy gray, swallowing the colors whole. But if I held my eyes open long enough, staring straight ahead, the colors would slowly return, like an old friend coming home.

It was confusing. It was beautiful. And it was terrifying.

I didn’t know what to make of it at first. No one had ever told me this could happen. No doctor mentioned it. No one talked about seeing light without eyes.

But this strange, secret world became a part of me. It was a new kind of vision. A private, personal experience that no one else could see.

And slowly, I stopped fighting it.

As I started to accept this new kind of vision inside me, something else changed too. I got involved with technology and the incredible people who helped me learn new skills to live fully despite blindness.

Screen readers, braille displays, voice assistants—they opened doors I thought were closed forever. Suddenly, I could connect with the world in ways I hadn’t imagined. I learned to navigate, create, and communicate like never before.

It wasn’t just the technology—it was the community around it. The friends, mentors, and advocates who believed in me and pushed me forward. Their support helped chase away a lot of that old anger.

Now, I feel great about how far I’ve come. My vision might be different from others, but it’s mine. And it’s full of light, color, and hope.

Of course, not everything is perfect. Parts of this still bother me—like having to ask others for help with so many things. It’s not always easy to rely on people, and sometimes I wish I could do it all on my own.

But I’ve gotten through those moments too. Step by step, day by day, I’m learning to live life on my own terms—even if that means asking for help sometimes.

This is my story. Not a story of giving up, but of finding light in the darkest places—and choosing to keep moving forward.     

Chapter Two

After that, I never talked to anyone else about it.

I stopped trying to explain. I stopped trying to share.

It just wasn’t worth the judgment, the confusion, or the pain of being called weird by someone I trusted.

So I kept it to myself.

Whenever someone asked what I saw, I’d just say, “Nothing. It’s all black.”

But that wasn’t true. Not really.

Yes, sometimes it is pitch black—deep, silent, and still. But not all the time. Not most of the time. What I see is more than just darkness. It’s a world of shifting colors, lights, and feelings that I’ve never found the right words for.

But I kept that world private.

I let people believe what they wanted to believe, because it felt safer that way. Let them think blindness means only blackness. Let them imagine nothingness. I knew the truth was more complicated, more alive, and honestly... more beautiful.

And even though I was quiet on the outside, something inside me kept watching, kept feeling, kept seeing.

Even though what’s left of my eyes still acts like they used to—itching, hurting, or just feeling strange—I find myself rubbing them or wiping away tears. Not from crying. Just from how they water on their own, like they’re still trying to function in a world they no longer see.

And while I can’t see my hands touching my face, or my fingers near my eyes, I can still see the light. The peach glow. The floating yellow sparks. The reddish-orange flickers at the edges. The brightness on my ceiling, like the sun peeking through clouds.

It’s a mystery, even to me.

My body still reacts like it remembers what it means to see—while something deeper inside continues to actually see in a different way.

When I’m with friends or around other people, I try to stay in the moment. But those lights and colors are always there in the background. And I’m thankful for everything I’ve learned along the way—thankful for the people who saw me as more than just blind.

People like Jason Bombelyn, Timothy Jones, Julia Massey, and Nathon Heald. People who helped me grow.

And the High Hope Center, where I learned how to answer phones, handle stressful calls, and be the voice on the other end when no one else was around. I gained confidence, strength, and a new sense of purpose.

And then there was Pam.

Pam has always been a light in her own way. The best thing about Pam is that whenever I’m with her and her friends, she always makes sure they respect my space and communicate clearly.

She’ll say, “If you want to talk to her, you need to speak up, or come closer, or hold out your hand so she knows you’re there.”

That meant everything to me.

She didn’t leave me to struggle. She didn’t make me feel less-than. She stood up for me. She included me.

I really appreciated that about her. I give her that much—and all the more.

Sometimes, when I’m just sitting quietly, maybe smiling, someone will ask, “What are you thinking about?”

I usually just say, “Oh, not too much in particular.”

But the truth is—it is something.

It’s the lights. The experiences. The people who helped me. The things I’ve overcome.

It’s what I’ve been carrying.

So, this is what being blind actually means to me.

I just didn’t recognize it…

Until, like I said—years later.

Chapter Three

The Dimming Light (and What Came After)

It started before I went totally blind.
I was about twenty-two, just about to turn twenty-three.
And I could feel it happening—slowly, silently.
Like the light was packing up and leaving, one small piece at a time.

I tried to explain it to my mom. I didn’t have the words.
How do you tell someone you’re seeing fire-colored skies in your mind while your actual vision slips away?
How do you say, “I think I’m going blind,” when even you don’t fully believe it?

She didn’t know what to say.
And I didn’t know what I needed her to say.
I just knew something was happening to me—and I was scared.
We were both scared.

All I could say was, “We have to go to the doctor.”
Even though part of me already knew.

---

But what I didn’t expect—what I couldn’t have guessed—was that the colors never truly left.
They stayed.
Changed.
Transformed into something only I could see.

Even now, they still come to me.
Not with shapes I can name or rooms I can navigate—
but with color.
So much color.

Bright fire red and orange, like a sky on fire.
Yellow sparks floating through it like embers.
A deep reddish brown around the edges like a flame turning to ash.

Sometimes, I’m just walking through my house, minding my own business.
Other times I’m lying in bed, doing absolutely nothing.
And whoosh—there it is again.

It happens momentarily, unpredictably.
Like something just flicked on a light inside me.

First, the red-orange.
Then—bright purple.
Then hot pink, glowing like it's alive.
Then peach, soft and surreal.

It changes. It shifts.
One moment to the next, and I never know what’s coming.
It feels like waves—light moving through my mind the way wind moves through trees.

And even though I can’t see my hand, can’t see faces, can’t see rooms or signs or shadows…
I can see this.

---

And here’s where it gets hard to explain.
What is this?
Where is it coming from?

Is it my brain playing tricks on me?
Some leftover visual memory?
Just random noise from nerves that forgot they’re supposed to be blind?

Or is it something more?
Is this some kind of eternal eyesight?
A vision that doesn't come from the eyes at all, but from somewhere deeper?

Because it doesn't feel like a glitch.
It feels intentional.
Like a message I haven’t learned how to read yet.

Sometimes I wonder…
What if this is the part of me that still sees beyond the physical?
What if this is spiritual?
What if, in losing my sight, I opened a door to something no one else can witness?

Even now, I don’t have the answers.
All I know is that it’s real to me.
As real as sound, as real as touch.
A language of color and light that speaks without words.

Maybe it's a gift.
Maybe it’s just my brain.
Maybe it’s both.

But I live in it.
It lives in me.