If you’ve stumbled upon this little corner of the internet, thank you for being here. I’m just a guy who’s spent most of his life chasing light through a lens, and lately, that light has started to fade in ways I never quite imagined. This post isn’t meant to be a pity party or a grand manifesto, I’m no expert on resilience, just someone muddling through with a heart full of gratitude and a camera bag that’s gotten a bit lighter over the months. But writing has always been a quiet companion to my photography, a way to make sense of the frames I capture (or, these days, the ones I remember). So, with a deep breath and a humble nod to God, here’s where my story sits right now.

It started with a simple video. Yesterday, I hit record on my phone for Instagram, a raw, rambling clip from the heart about the sting of going blind and what that means for the photographs I’ve loved making. I poured out the ache of knowing I can’t nail those perfect compositions or exposures anymore, the kind that come from years of squinting at a scene with my one good eye and just knowing. Film has its own personality, doesn’t it? Fomapan with its moody shadows and tight latitude, Kentmere offering a bit more forgiveness in the highlights.  Details like that live in my head, etched from decades of trial and error. But my eyes? They’ve decided to bow out early. Five doctors, the state of Arizona, and the U.S. government all agree: I’m beyond legally blind, teetering on the edge of total darkness. I wake up each morning bracing for the day it all goes black.

About two months back, the warning signs ramped up. Closing my eyes brought flashes of random colors and lights, like a faulty projector spinning out of control. That sliver of vision I had left, five degrees on a good day, turned blurry, turning the world into soft-edged blobs. I laughed it off in an article I wrote, calling everyone a “blob” because, well, humor’s been my shield against the heavy stuff. But reality doesn’t stay polite for long. 

One afternoon, I picked up one of my trusty SLR film cameras, the kind that’s felt like an extension of my hand for years. I tried to focus. Couldn’t. The viewfinder swam into nonsense. Composition? Forget it—that narrow tunnel of sight wasn’t enough to frame a thought.

I found myself on a park bench that day, head in hands, weeping for what felt like hours. Self-pity wrapped around me like fog, thick and unyielding. It was the first time I’d let the full weight of it crash down. I haven’t lifted a camera to shoot since, not one single frame. In the haze of those weeks, I started selling off pieces of my collection, each transaction a quiet goodbye to the tools that shaped my world. All that’s left now are my beloved folding cameras, with their tactile folds and whispers of history, and two SLRs I just can’t part with. They’re like old friends I can’t bear to lose, even if they sit gathering dust.

Looking back, I’ve been dancing with this shadow for longer than I care to admit. As a kid, doctors warned I’d lose my sight in adolescence. It didn’t happen, praise God for that grace, and maybe that’s why I’ve poured everything into photography. Forty years as a hobbyist, twenty as a professional. Every click was a prayer, a moment stolen from time. 

Through breakups and breakthroughs, lean years and laughter, that passion kept me steady. It wasn’t about fame or perfection; it was joy, pure and simple. Losing it? It’s like misplacing a limb. For months, I’ve wandered aimlessly, future a foggy outline. But I’m not alone in the drift, Jesus has been my anchor, my wife my soft place to land, and our three goofy pups? They’re the daily reminder that wagging tails don’t need perfect vision.

Yesterday morning, something shifted. I woke with a spark, not a wildfire, just a gentle glow. Determination, I suppose you’d call it. I dug into a folder of unreleased shots from a May trip, landscapes that still make my heart hum even if I can’t see them sharply anymore. I posted a few, tentative steps back into sharing. I didn’t head out to shoot, but the thought lingered, whispering maybe. The truth is, I hold myself to impossible standards, flawless light, impeccable lines that I wouldn’t dream of expecting from anyone else. It’s a humble brag wrapped in humility: I’ve been blessed with skill, but pride can be a sneaky thief. How do I create without chasing ghosts of what was?

This road to blindness? I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. It’s lonely, riddled with “what ifs” that echo in the quiet hours. But here’s the quiet miracle: it led me to the blind center in Phoenix. Walking through those doors flipped the script. Suddenly, it wasn’t the end of my story but a pivot to a new chapter. I’ve met folks who get it, the raw grief, the stubborn spark. Some love photography as fiercely as I do, swapping tips on adaptive gear like it’s the most natural conversation. Together, we’ve sparked an advocacy group here in Arizona, a loose band of encouragers lifting each other up. No heroes among us, just people saying, “Hey, you’ve got this—one step at a time.”

Life’s gone tactile now, and there’s a strange beauty in that. Braille bumps under my fingers, keyboard clicks like Morse code for my thoughts. Cameras with dials and buttons? They’re gold, things I can map in my mind, muscle memory overriding the dark. Tomorrow, I’m pulling out my Minolta Maxxum, that autofocus wonder with its forgiving heart. I’ll give it a go, no pressure, just curiosity. 

Scanning the negatives afterward will be a puzzle, details lost to me, but that’s the thrill, isn’t it? An adventure in trust, handing the reveal over to the machine and whatever magic it uncovers.

I love this part, if I’m honest, the relearning. Figuring out angles by sound and feel, composing by instinct honed over lifetimes. Lights? Who needs ’em? I navigate just fine in the pitch black, a skill that’s equal parts survival and secret superpower. It’s all a gift, wrapped in loss, reminding me that sight was never the whole picture.

If you’re reading this and facing your own storm—big or small—know this: it’s okay to sit on that bench for a while. But don’t stay there forever. Reach for the hand extended, whether it’s a friend’s, a stranger’s at a support group, or the steady one from above. I’m still figuring it out, one humble frame at a time. Life? It’s good. Messy, blurred at the edges, but profoundly good.

Thanks for letting me share. Drop a note if this resonates.  I’m all ears (and heart). Until next time, keep chasing what lights you up, however dim the path.

With quiet thanks,

Jefferson Davis