There are some things in life you never imagine having to surrender. For me, one of those things was my eyesight.
I was born with a rare condition called Morning Glory Syndrome, a defect of the optic nerve that had been quietly waiting in the background for most of my life. I knew my eyes were not perfect, but I had learned to live with that. What I was not prepared for was how quickly my vision could change—or how much of it I could lose.
Several years ago, the retina in my right eye detached. What followed were three separate surgeries, each carrying the hope that my vision might be saved.
After each surgery, I had to spend two weeks lying on my stomach with my head kept face-down. The position allowed the gas bubble inside my eye to rise and press against the retina, helping hold it in place while everyone hoped it would reattach. Two weeks may not sound like much until you have to remain in that position day after day. It was uncomfortable, exhausting, and a genuine pain—but I did it three separate times because each time I believed it might save my sight.
Even Mellow Got Involved
A couple of weeks into my recovery, my cat Mellow apparently decided that if I was going to walk around the house with one eye closed, she should show a little solidarity. She began sitting near me with one eye squeezed shut, looking as though she had joined the recovery program herself. I had already endured surgery, gas bubbles, face-down positioning, and more discomfort than I cared to remember—but seeing Mellow copy me gave me something I badly needed: a reason to laugh.
All three surgeries ultimately failed.
After the third failed surgery, the doctors stopped relying on the temporary gas bubble they had hoped would help my retina reconnect. The gas eventually dissipates, but it had not solved the problem. They filled my right eye with silicone oil instead. Unlike the gas, the oil does not simply disappear. It remains inside my eye to support the retina and help hold everything in place.
The oil may preserve the structure of my eye, but it did not restore normal sight. Through that eye, the world now looks distorted—like everything is being reflected through a carnival mirror.
Despite everyone’s efforts, I eventually lost about 90 percent of the vision in my right eye.
That is a difficult sentence to write.
Losing sight is not only about what an eye can no longer see. It changes how you move through the world. Depth, distance, shadows, steps, and objects beside you require more attention. Things that once happened automatically now demand concentration. You become aware of obstacles other people never have to think about.
Then problems appeared in my left eye—the eye I now depended on most. Two holes and a retinal tear had to be treated. That brought a different kind of fear. Losing most of the vision in one eye was frightening enough. The possibility of something happening to the other eye forced me to confront just how fragile life can be.
I would be lying if I said I handled every moment with courage.
There were times when I was angry. There were times when I was afraid. There were moments when I wondered what else might be taken from me. I had already spent a lifetime being strong, serving my country, working, training, providing, and pushing forward. I was accustomed to solving problems through determination and effort.
But I could not order my eye to heal.
I could not lift more weight, work harder, or simply tough my way out of it.
I had to accept that some battles are not won by getting back everything we lost. Sometimes the victory is refusing to let the loss take everything else with it.
My eyesight changed, but my vision for my life did not.
I can still love my wife, Thao. I can still care for my family. I can still train, write, remember, serve, encourage others, and continue becoming the man God calls me to be. I can still recognize beauty, even if I sometimes see it differently now.
In some ways, losing sight has made other things clearer.
I see how easily we take ordinary abilities for granted. I understand more deeply that independence is precious. I recognize that strength is not always physical. Sometimes strength is quietly adapting to something you never wanted and continuing forward without allowing bitterness to control the rest of your story.
Faith does not mean pretending I am unafraid. It means trusting God while acknowledging that I am afraid. It means believing that my life still has meaning when the path ahead looks different from the one I had planned.
I have lost much of the sight in my right eye.
But I have not lost my purpose.
I have not lost my faith.
I have not lost my gratitude for the life still in front of me.
And I have not lost my vision.
