Eggs for Breakfast

Imagine: you wake one morning and the world has vanished, not in sound or shape, but in light. You have lost your eyesight.

The day still hums around you: the faucet runs, the children whisper, a clock ticks somewhere in the room. Yet all of it exists behind a curtain that will not lift. The enormity has not yet set in. It is like watching an accident unfold in slow motion. You are stunned, suspended, as if caught mid-sneeze with a full cup of coffee in hand.

Imagine: you were once the center of the household—the wife, the mother, the heartbeat of the home. You could find the missing shoe, decorate for a birthday, soothe a crying child, and greet your husband at the door with the familiar smile that eased the strain of his day.

Now your reflection is only memory. You try to fix your hair the way he loves, to choose clothes that still look like you, but you can only guess. You run your hands through the closet and pray the colors match. You step forward to greet him and wonder whether he still sees the woman he fell in love with or only her shadow.

Imagine: you once ran both a household and an office. You were proud of your accomplishments, proud of your place in the world. You still remember the way the afternoon sun used to hit the nameplate on your desk. The career that once defined you marches on, indifferent to the silence you inhabit. Meetings convene, emails circulate, projects unfold, but your name is filed away in the archives.

Imagine: movie nights with friends, spirited tennis matches, long dinners out. Now they hesitate, unsure what to say or what to suggest. Are movies still okay? How do you meet for lunch, go for a walk, or plan a weekend? Their discomfort builds a wall higher than blindness ever could.

Imagine: the house you once ruled feels foreign. You cannot tell which socks belong together. You burn your hand pouring tea. Now you avoid the kitchen altogether. Mail piles unread by the door, need and junk indistinguishable. The world of responsibility that once defined you now drifts just out of reach, like a door you can hear but cannot find. You feel yourself shrinking: capable in memory, diminished in action.

Imagine: you reach for a photo frame, uncertain of the faces within, and realize the deeper loss: those faces, their eyes, their smiles. Are they gone to you forever? You trace their outlines on the dusty surface and wonder if your little boy's grin still shows the gap in his teeth.

Imagine: your daughter falls and cries out from another room. The sound slices through you. You rush forward, heart pounding, but you cannot tell what happened—how deep the scrape is, where the blood might be, whether it is a wound that needs care or only comfort. You reach out, fumbling, and your child pulls back, startled. In that instant, you feel the fracture: mother, protector, healer, undone by darkness.

Imagine: you strive to keep the house as you once did—tidy, warm, and inviting—determined that no one will doubt your ability to hold the family together. You straighten cushions by memory, wipe counters by habit, set the table by touch, and hope it looks the way it should. When guests visit, you tilt your head toward their voices, smiling as though everything is fine. But afterward, when they leave, you find your way to the bathroom, close the door, and cry quietly so no one can hear the sound of your unraveling.

Imagine: the future once felt like open sky, filled with vacations, birthdays, and easy laughter. Now every thought of tomorrow carries a tremor of fear. How will you manage? What if you fall? What if you can't?

And then imagine: one day, after all the tears and quiet collapses, you decide to push back, not with anger but with will. You take stock and shift from grief to a recognition of strength. You accept disability as a part of you, not the whole of you. And you reach out.

You find yourself standing in the hallway of a rehabilitation center, fingers clutching a white cane, heart thudding. The word "blind" still feels foreign and unfamiliar, but the air around you is filled with people who understand. You meet others who have lost sight but not spirit. They spill milk, burn toast, bump into doors, and laugh about it. They learn not to give up on doing things, but to discover new ways to do them: differently, yet just as well.

You laugh too. You share stories, trade tips, and rediscover courage. You realize you are not alone. You meet Alex, a lively college student thrilled to test a new magnifier app, hoping it will help her play her favorite video game again. You meet Taylor, a tech-savvy professional relieved to troubleshoot a screen reader glitch before returning to the office.

Imagine: instructors show you not what you cannot do, but how you can. You learn how to label clothes by texture, to move around safely, to access your computer, and to pay bills online again. You learn to test your blood sugar and draw your own insulin.

You send your husband a text: "I love you." You cry when you read his reply: "I love you too. Can't wait to see you."

You step onto the talking scale and jump when it blurts out your weight, loud enough for the whole room to hear. You burst out laughing at its unapologetically loud honesty.

Imagine traffic roaring just feet away, your heart racing with fear and anticipation. It feels like more than a street-crossing lesson. You step forward, heart pounding. You move past the stopped cars, hearing their engines growl and feeling their heat. Then, suddenly, your cane taps the curb. You have already crossed!

Breathless, you step up, release the tension that's been weighing you down, and tears flow. They are tears of joy, of triumph. You did it! A passage from despair to resilience. Relief bursts into laughter, the urge to shout. Your mobility instructor stands with quiet assurance, knowing you have crossed more than a street.

Imagine: it is Friday. Your first week of rehab is nearly over. A vision rehab therapist, with a voice like a reassuring hug, hands you a skillet. You center the pan on the burner, turn the knob with a racing heart, crack an egg with unsure hands, listen for the sizzle, and wait. You flip it by feel, by sound, by confidence.

The egg lands perfectly.

You laugh—loud, free, surprised. That sound, rising from deep within, is the sound of healing.

Afterward, you meet your new friends in the lobby. "Any plans for the weekend?" someone asks.

You smile. "I do not know what my family wants for breakfast tomorrow," you say, "but they are going to have eggs!"

Imagine: the darkness has not lifted, but you have.