On living with double vision, the things we take for granted, and learning to navigate a world that no longer looks the same.
At 25, I woke up to a world that looked different.
Not metaphorically. Not in the way people describe a new chapter of life or a change in perspective. Literally.
I started seeing double.
It is difficult to explain what it feels like when something you have never had to think about suddenly becomes something you cannot escape. Seeing is supposed to be automatic. You open your eyes, and the world is there. You look at someone, read a sentence, cross a street, drive somewhere familiar. You do not have to think about how your eyes are working together. You simply see.
Until, one day, you don't see the way you used to.
And somehow, life continues. You still have responsibilities, work to do, places to go, things to learn, and plans you want to make. The world does not pause while you try to understand what has happened to you.
Six years later, I am still trying to understand it myself.
There have been appointments, investigations, countless adjustments, and more prism prescriptions than I ever imagined I would need. Each time, there is hope that perhaps this will be the one that makes things easier. That maybe I will finally find the right balance, the right correction, the version of my vision that allows me to stop thinking about it every waking moment.
Over the years, my prism prescription has gradually increased, and I am now at 16 prism diopters. To most people, that might just sound like a number. To me, it represents years of trying to make sense of a world that no longer looks the way it used to. Every adjustment comes with the hope that things might finally feel easier, and sometimes, with the frustration of realising that correcting my vision is not as straightforward as I wish it were.
Living with double vision is not always as simple as finding the right pair of glasses.
Sometimes, correcting one thing seems to create another problem. The double vision may improve, but the world looks blurry, distorted, or strangely unfamiliar. Sometimes, there is nausea and exhaustion after doing something as ordinary as walking around a store. And sometimes, I find myself wondering how something that seems so simple to everyone else can take so much out of me.
I have tried to explain it, but there are experiences that are difficult to put into words. People see me looking at them, walking around, going about my day. They cannot see the effort behind it — the constant adjustments, the discomfort, the concentration, or the way my brain is working to make sense of what my eyes are giving it.
Double vision is not just seeing two of everything. It is having to reconsider something you have trusted your entire life.
It is noticing how much of your independence depends on something you once took completely for granted. Even driving, something that can feel so ordinary, can carry a different weight when you start wondering how long you will be able to do it comfortably and safely. It is not simply about getting from one place to another. It is about freedom, spontaneity, and being able to live your life without having to negotiate every little thing with your body.
And it is the uncertainty of not knowing what comes next.
Perhaps that is the hardest part. I still do not have a clear answer as to why this started when I was 25. I do not have a neat explanation for why my vision changed, why the prisms have continued to increase, or what the future holds. Six years have passed, and there are still questions I cannot answer.
I have learned that not every medical journey comes with a satisfying conclusion. Sometimes, you do the appointments, follow the recommendations, try the adjustments, and keep showing up — without getting the explanation you desperately want.
It can be exhausting to keep trying when you do not know what you are trying to fix, or whether the next attempt will make a meaningful difference.
And yet, this is only one part of my life.
I still want to study, create, travel, take photographs, discover new cafés, make plans, and get excited about the little things. I still want to experience the world, even when experiencing it takes more effort than it should. I do not want every story about my life to become a story about what is difficult. There is so much more to me than that.
But I also do not want to pretend that this is easy.
There is a particular kind of exhaustion in having to adapt to something that never quite stops demanding your attention. You can become very good at carrying on while still wishing that, just for once, you did not have to work so hard at something everyone else seems to do effortlessly.
I miss not thinking about my vision.
I miss the simplicity of looking at the world without analysing what I am seeing, wondering whether a new pair of glasses will help, or questioning whether the discomfort I feel is something I should push through or take seriously.
I miss the certainty of not having to wonder what this might mean for my future.
I do not know how this story will unfold. I do not know whether I will find the answers I am looking for, whether my vision will stabilise, or whether I will eventually find a way to make it all feel less complicated.
For now, I am learning to navigate the uncertainty alongside everything else that makes up my life.
Not every challenge comes with a lesson. Not every unanswered question needs to be turned into an inspiring message. And not every difficult experience has to end with a revelation about how strong we have become.
Sometimes, it is simply difficult. Sometimes, we are tired of adjusting. Sometimes, we just want something to make sense.
And sometimes, we keep going without knowing exactly where the road leads.
Six years ago, I began seeing the world differently. I am still learning how to live in it this way — and I am still hoping to understand why.
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