Things I Absolutely Love Hearing as a Blind Person—Not!

As a blind person, I have been the lucky recipient of some truly memorable comments over the years. Most are well-intentioned. Some are awkward. Some are ableist. And a few have left me wondering whether the person saying them actually heard the words coming out of their mouth.

So, in no particular order, here are some of my favorite things to hear as a blind person.

And yes, in case you haven’t figured it out yet, I am being sarcastic.

“I don’t know how you do it.”

Do what, exactly?

Get dressed? Raise children? Work? Travel? Make dinner? Have friends? Use a computer? Live?

Usually, when someone says this, I know what they mean. They are trying to acknowledge that being blind presents challenges.

But what I hear is: Your ordinary life seems extraordinary to me because I cannot imagine a blind person doing it.

I don’t wake up every morning, put on my superhero cape, grab my cane, and courageously face another day without sight. I wake up and live my life.

Some things are harder because I’m blind. Some things require adaptations. And some things are harder because the world was designed by and for sighted people.

But living my life isn’t an inspirational achievement.

“I think the worst thing in the world would be to be blind.”

This one is always delightful.

Imagine standing in front of someone and essentially saying, “The life you are living is pretty much my worst nightmare.”

How exactly am I supposed to respond?

“Thanks. Nice seeing you too?”

People often say this because they are imagining suddenly losing their own sight. They’re imagining fear, dependence, and everything they believe they would lose.

What they’re generally not imagining is adaptation.

They’re not imagining learning new skills, using technology, traveling with a cane or guide dog, raising a family, having a career, going out with friends, falling in love, laughing, arguing with your spouse, worrying about your kids, and doing all of the incredibly ordinary things blind people do.

Blindness changes a life. It doesn’t eliminate one.

“You are so amazing.”

This one depends entirely on context.

If I just climbed Mount Everest, please tell me I’m amazing.

If I wrote a brilliant book, raised millions of dollars for a cause, won an award, or figured out where the missing socks disappear to in the dryer, by all means, be impressed.

But if I’m amazing because I cooked dinner by myself or blow-dried my own hair?

We need to raise the bar.

Disabled people often call this “inspiration porn”: when ordinary things disabled people do are treated as extraordinary simply because we’re disabled.

It may sound complimentary, but there’s an assumption underneath it: I didn’t think someone like you could do that.

That’s not really a compliment.

“I could never do what you do.”

Yes, you probably could.

You don’t think you could because you haven’t had to.

Neither did I.

Human beings adapt. We learn. We problem-solve. We figure things out because the alternative is sitting in a corner and refusing to participate in our own lives.

Blind people aren’t born knowing how to navigate the world without sight. We learn.

The problem with “I could never do what you do” is that it once again makes blindness seem like an almost superhuman challenge and blind people some unusually courageous species for surviving it.

I’m really not that special.

Ask my kids. They’ll be happy to confirm this.

“Are you sure you can do that?”

Another favorite.

Sometimes it’s a reasonable question. There are things I can’t do because I can’t see.

Driving comes to mind.

But often this question appears before I’ve even had the opportunity to try something.

That’s the problem.

Instead of asking how something might be made accessible, people jump immediately to whether a blind person should be doing it at all.

Let me determine my limitations.

I am a grown adult. I am fully capable of knowing what I can and cannot do. When you ask, “Are you sure you can do that?” simply because I’m blind, there is an implication underneath the question: that somehow I don’t have the intellectual capacity to understand my own abilities or limitations.

Trust me, I’ve had a lot more experience being blind than you have. I know what I can do. I know what I can’t do. And when I don’t know, I’m capable of figuring that out for myself.

And the same goes for risk.

Sometimes I may choose to do something that carries a little more risk than you would be comfortable with. That doesn’t mean I don’t understand the risk. It means I have assessed it and decided whether it is a risk I am willing to take.

Sighted adults do this every day. They ski. They hike. They climb ladders. They travel alone. They try new things. They make decisions that involve varying degrees of risk, and no one automatically assumes they lack the intellectual capacity to understand the consequences.

Blind adults deserve that same presumption of competence.

You don’t have to eliminate every possible risk from my life on my behalf. Give me the information I need, if there is information I might not have access to, and then let me decide.

My blindness does not make me incapable of understanding risk, and it does not give other people the authority to decide how much risk I am allowed to take.

“Who takes care of you?”

This question usually comes disguised in slightly different forms.

“Does your husband help you a lot?”

“Do you have someone who comes in?”

“What do you do when you’re alone?”

The assumption is that blindness automatically equals dependence.

There is nothing wrong with needing help. Every human being needs help sometimes, disabled or not.

But needing assistance with certain things is very different from needing someone to take care of you.

Blind adults are adults.

We manage homes. We raise children. We work. We make decisions. We pay bills. We screw things up. We fix them. We ask for help when we need it.

You know, adulthood.

“You don’t look blind.”

I am still waiting for someone to explain what blind is supposed to look like.

Should I be wearing something?

Is there a uniform I wasn’t issued?

Blindness is a spectrum. Some blind people have no vision. Some have light perception. Some have usable vision. Some people look directly at you when they’re speaking. Others don’t. Some use canes. Some use guide dogs. Some use neither. Some wear dark glasses because they have light sensitivity. Some do not.

There isn’t a “blind look.”

And telling someone they don’t “look blind” can sound suspiciously like, “I don’t believe you.”

“At least you have your husband.”

I do. And I’m very fortunate to have him.

But let’s follow that thought to its logical conclusion.

What happens if I don’t?

Which brings me to perhaps the greatest comment I have ever received.

A relative once told me that I should hope I die before my husband so I wouldn’t be left alone to take care of myself.

Yes.

Someone actually said this to me.

I have heard plenty of ableist comments in my life, but this one deserves its own trophy.

Think about what that statement actually says.

My husband isn’t simply my partner. In this scenario, he’s apparently the thing standing between me and complete helplessness.

And if he dies first?

Well, apparently I should have had the foresight to die before him.

WTF?

I can laugh about the absurdity of it now, but underneath that comment is something that isn’t funny at all: the belief that a blind woman could not possibly be capable of managing her own life and living on her own.

That is ableism in its purest form.

And then there are the little ones.

Out shopping with a friend and someone asks, “Is this your helper?”

“It’s so wonderful that you get out.”

“I’ll pray that someday you can see again.”

“You’re lucky you can’t see how bad I look today.”

“Your other senses must be incredible.”

“I couldn’t live if I couldn’t see.”

And one of my personal favorites: talking to the person standing next to me instead of talking to me.

“Does she want something to drink?”

She does.

And she can also hear you.

Why does any of this matter?

Because words reveal expectations.

I’ve written before about how people usually mean well, and I still believe that. Most people who make these comments aren’t trying to insult me. They’re trying to connect, sympathize, or say something kind.

But intention isn’t the whole story.

When you tell a blind person, “I could never live like you,” you’re telling them you view their life as something nearly unbearable.

When you’re amazed that we perform ordinary tasks, you’re revealing how little you expected us to be capable of.

When you assume someone must take care of us, you’re confusing disability with helplessness.

And when you tell a blind woman she should hope she dies before her husband so she won’t be left to care for herself?

Well, you’re just stupid. Sorry.

These comments all come from the same place: a belief that a life with disability is inherently less independent, less complete, and less desirable than a life without disability.

That’s ableism.

Sometimes ableism looks like discrimination or an inaccessible building or website.

But sometimes it sounds like a compliment.

So what should you say?

You don’t have to tell me I’m amazing for being blind.

You don’t have to tell me you could never do it.

You definitely don’t need to tell me you’d rather be dead.

Talk to me the way you would talk to anyone else.

Ask questions if you’re curious-respectfully.

If I accomplish something genuinely impressive, celebrate it with me.

If I need help, let me ask for it, or offer without assuming.

And maybe most importantly, don’t look at my life and decide from the outside how difficult, tragic, or inspirational it must be.

Blindness is part of my life.

It has shaped me. It frustrates me. It has created barriers. It has also introduced me to people, experiences, and a community I might never have known otherwise.

I don’t need you to think blindness is wonderful.

I just need you to understand that being blind and having a good, full, independent, and meaningful life are not contradictions.

And if you’re still tempted to tell me you don’t know how I do it?

Coffee.

The answer is probably coffee.

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Written By Michelle Friedman

Michelle Friedman, Keshet immediate past board chair in Chicago, a member of Disability Lead and has been a disability advocate for 40 years. She has written two children’s books and is a frequent speaker for elementary and high school-age students. #AllInForAllAbilities