Last week I wrote about Disability Pride Month and asked, What Are We Really Celebrating?   

I suggested that perhaps we’re celebrating those moments when we stop pretending the Blind Elephant isn’t standing in the room. Maybe what we’re really celebrating is learning to acknowledge disability without fear, awkwardness, or pretending it isn’t there.  

A few days later, I flew to Abilene, Texas, to present The Blind Elephant in the Room keynote for the Disability in Action community. What I discovered surprised me. Although I had traveled to Texas to speak about the Blind Elephant in the Room, I found myself surrounded by people who were already living the message.  

The experience began before I even reached the airport. My Lyft driver spoke very little English, so when he dropped me off, he simply pointed toward the terminal. Carrying a heavy backpack, pulling a suitcase filled with books and speakers, and holding my purple cane, I started walking toward the sound of two men talking. They weren’t airport employees, yet one of them immediately offered to guide me inside. Another employee then walked me to security. A fellow traveler, who happened to be standing nearby, helped me through the screening process before continuing on to her own flight. One person after another stepped in, not because they had to, but because they wanted to. None of them seemed afraid to start a conversation with a blind stranger.  

Then I met Betsy.  

Sometimes God gives us exactly the seatmate we need.  

As it turned out, we quickly discovered that we were both seventy-three years old. She had lived in Indianapolis, where I was born. She had spent time in Florida, where some of my family and one of my closest friends now live. Before long, we were simply two women enjoying one another’s company. She never made me feel like a blind passenger who needed special attention. She treated me as Gail, who happened to be blind.  

By the time we landed, Betsy cheerfully offered to escort me to what she called the “comfort zone”—the restroom. I laughed so hard I nearly decided that should be the title of my next blog.  

When I arrived in Abilene, Leah greeted me with a warm, “Yes, ma’am.” Before long, I realized I was hearing those words everywhere I went. The phrase wasn’t simply good manners. The phrase reflected an attitude of respect and service that seemed woven into the community. Throughout the day, I heard stories about churches caring for neighbors, people helping one another, and volunteering simply because that’s what they do. Whether I was talking with hotel staff, airline employees, or audience members, I sensed the same spirit. Everyone seemed to be asking the same silent question: How can I help?  

When it came time to speak, the audience laughed in all the right places. They laughed with me when I joked, “Still blind!” after bumping into a table with my cane. They sang along during You Can Count on Me. They understood the pauses at the end of my presentation and applauded exactly when I hoped they would. Afterwards, people came forward not to tell me how amazing I am because I’m blind, rather to tell me about the life I had lived and the dreams I had pursued. That distinction meant more to me than they will probably ever know. I understood they had heard the message beneath the message.  

One conversation made me smile. A woman introduced me to her mother, who was sitting in a wheelchair, and as I leaned over to hug her, I felt something enormous resting in her lap.  

“What in the world is this?” I asked.  

“My phone.”  

“Your phone? It has to be the biggest phone on the planet! They should call it Mammoth instead of a phone!”  

Before long, we were all laughing together.  

What struck me most was how naturally people interacted with me. They acknowledged my blindness without making it the center of the conversation. They simply saw me, spoke to me, and weren’t afraid to make a genuine human connection. Before long, we were simply enjoying one another as people.  

As I flew home, I found myself thinking back to last week’s blog. Perhaps Disability Pride Month isn’t only about recognizing the accomplishments of people with disabilities. Perhaps Disability Pride Month is also about celebrating those moments when people stop worrying about differences long enough to see one another.  

When that happens, blindness doesn’t disappear. Wheelchairs don’t disappear. Hearing aids, canes, walkers, and guide dogs don’t disappear either.  

What disappears is the fear.  

And when fear disappears, relationships begin.  

Maybe that’s what I brought to Texas.  

Or perhaps Texas reminded me what can happen when we choose to see one another first.  

They saw me.  

They really saw me.  

And perhaps that’s where every lasting relationship begins—not by seeing a disability, but by truly seeing the person. And when we change the way we see—people, life, and circumstances—we begin to change the way we live.  

Spread your wings and fly.