Yesterday started off on a high note with our usual homeschooling routine. Maria was learning about numbers in expanded form, and it was exciting to watch her put the pieces together. We also dove into identifying characters and problems in stories, which brought up great discussions about how characters’ choices drive a story forward. Maria really got into it, and I love seeing how these lessons build her curiosity and critical thinking.
In the afternoon, we had an event lined up called “Animal Adventure” At the library.
As Mrs. R. the teacher for this activity, set up, I could hear her preparing a variety of animals for the kids to learn about. She brought snakes, turtles, frogs, and a tarantula, along with other creatures I probably didn’t catch.
Once the little animal show was underway, Mrs. R. took out the tarantula to talk about, and that’s when I felt Marwa tense up. Her fear was almost immediate. She looked at me and whispered that she wanted to go upstairs with Safa, clearly uncomfortable with the sight of the spider. Sensing her distress, I quietly left Maria to continue enjoying the lesson while I took Marwa upstairs to find her dad and sister.
We found Ahmed and Safa, and Marwa decided she was much more comfortable staying in the playroom with them.
I headed back downstairs to wait until Maria was done, finding a small outer room to sit and wait. It was easier for me to find a seat there and take a breather. As I sat, I overheard two ladies talking nearby. One of them mentioned that she was Muslim and takes her daughter to Islamic school on Fridays.
Hearing that stirred something in me. A sense of sadness crept in, a feeling of disconnection. As Muslims, we are taught to greet one another with “Salaam alaikum”—peace be upon you. It’s a simple but powerful gesture, and yet, she hadn’t offered that greeting to me. I wasn’t expecting a deep conversation or a lasting friendship, just a simple acknowledgement that we shared something—a faith, a connection.
But it didn’t come, and it left me feeling a bit hollow. It’s such a small thing, but that greeting is meant to bring us closer together, especially in a world where feeling alone can sometimes be overwhelming. I don’t often get that greeting, and being blind adds another layer to that challenge.
Being blind makes it hard for me to initiate those connections. I can’t see if someone is wearing a headscarf, smiling, or looking at me with a greeting in their gaze. All those little visual cues that others rely on are things I can’t pick up on. I want to connect, to feel included, but when you can’t see the people around you, it’s easy to feel isolated. Even something as simple as thinking someone is talking to me, only to find out they’re speaking to someone next to me, can be so embarrassing. It’s a constant reminder of how much I’m missing in those unspoken moments.
Maria finished the animal adventure full of excitement, ready to tell me all about the creatures she’d learned about. Her joy and enthusiasm were contagious, and as we made our way home, I tried to focus on the good moments of the day—Maria’s progress in school, the fun at the animal event—but that lingering sadness about the missed greeting stuck with me.
This is just one of those silent struggles that comes with being blind. I want to be part of the world, to feel seen and acknowledged. But sometimes, those small connections that others take for granted feel just out of reach for me.
The Dappled Odysseys 