Blind Eyes, Open Heart

 

Last week, during a train journey, I saw something that shook me deeply. It left me sitting with a quiet kind of sorrow—about society, about life, about how we live without truly seeing. And yet, in the same moment, something in that scene melted my heart. It cracked something open inside me.

There was a couple with a small child. The child was sitting on his father’s shoulders—his nose runny, clothes stained and dirty. I looked at him and thought, How irresponsible can parents be? My first reaction was judgment. I assumed neglect. I assumed carelessness.

But then I saw what I hadn’t noticed at first: both parents were blind.

The mother was gently holding the father’s hand. He had a stick in the other, slowly tapping the ground to guide their path. Neither of them was well-dressed. They looked tired, worn—but there was something else: the father was smiling. The child shifted on his shoulders, and the man adjusted him with quiet care, as if he’d done this a hundred times. And suddenly, everything I had thought a moment earlier felt small and cruel.

My eyes filled with tears.

What kind of strength does it take to live like that? Two blind parents, moving through this brutal world, raising a child they cannot even see. They weren’t begging. They weren’t angry. They were just there—together—navigating the chaos of the train, of life, of everything, as a family.

I was humbled.

Most of us lose our minds over the smallest problems—traffic, a bad day at work, someone not texting back. And here were two people, carrying a burden I can barely imagine, simply doing their best. Communicating through touch, through quiet gestures. Trusting each other completely.

It made me realize how strong love can be. Real love. Not the type full of words and promises, but the kind where two people become each other’s eyes, each other’s compass. They had nothing—but they had something deeper than most people ever find.

But then another part of me struggled. That child—barely two or three years old—what kind of life will he have? Will he ever know what it means to be taken care of in the way most children are? Will he know the comfort of a parent wiping his nose, dressing him clean, watching over him with sighted eyes?

And here’s where my thoughts took a darker turn. I started questioning the decision. Not out of cruelty—but out of helplessness. Is it fair to bring a child into a world when you know you may not be able to give him the basic things? Sight is not everything, but in a world like ours, it is something. Did they think about that when they had him? Did they choose it with full awareness, or were they just following the instinct every human seems to have—to reproduce, to carry life forward, without really asking: why?

That thought stayed with me.

We live in a world where most people move on autopilot—consume, reproduce, repeat. We don’t ask hard questions. We don’t stop to wonder if we’re ready—not just financially or emotionally—but consciously. We forget that with every child, we don’t just give birth to a body. We bring a consciousness into the world. A being who will suffer and love and struggle. A being who deserves more than just survival.

We claim to love our children, but we’ve created a world that’s choking on its own weight. Crowded cities, poisoned air, broken systems. And still, we say we’re doing it all for the next generation. Really?

I’m not saying people shouldn’t have kids. I’m saying do it with purpose. With awareness. With your eyes open—not just literally, but spiritually.

That couple—yes, they couldn’t see. But in some ways, they saw more than most people do. Their love, their courage, their unity—it was real. But the world around them? The society they’re living in? That’s what’s blind. Blind to suffering. Blind to the truth of what it means to bring a life into this world.

It made me realize something else, too: the importance of a life partner. Not just someone to walk beside you, but someone who becomes your other half—your second sense, your strength when you're vulnerable. They were walking in literal darkness, but they believed in each other. That kind of trust is sacred.

We think we have problems. We think our lives are hard. And maybe they are. But that day, on that train, I saw a different kind of strength. A strength that doesn’t scream, doesn’t demand attention—it just keeps going, even when the world doesn't make space for you.

I still don’t have all the answers. But that moment opened something in me. It made me look at the world—and myself—a little differently.

And maybe that’s the beginning of seeing.

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When was the last time life showed you something that completely challenged your first reaction—and made you see the world, or yourself, a little more clearly?

We all carry biases—assumptions built from what we think we know. But life, in its quiet moments, has a way of humbling us. Sometimes, it's not the loud headlines or big events that shift our hearts. Sometimes, it's a father carrying his child through darkness with a smile.

If this made you pause, even for a moment, maybe let it grow into something deeper. Maybe ask one more question before making one more assumption.

Not everything broken needs fixing. Some things need witnessing.