Last time I took a long break from blogging (or posting on anything social, for that matter) it was because I was working on a big project that required all my attention and efforts. This time, though, I don’t have a fun reason for my long absence.

I’ve hinted about what happened on my Instagram, but I thought I should probably write about it here too. One of my goals for 2025 is to get back in the game— posting, blogging, and reconnecting with the world. And I think part of that includes being a bit more open and vulnerable. So here it goes.

Shortly after Unusual Animal Messages was published I went in for a routine eye exam to get an updated prescription. The optometrist miscalculated and prescribed me a prism lens— and if you don’t know what that is, no problem. I didn’t either. I literally thought it was something for astigmatism. It’s not though— it’s a special lens that pulls your eye in a different direction than it naturally wants to go to try and fix any alignment issues.

This is where it all gets a bit complicated, but I’ll try my best to explain what happened as clearly as I can. At the time, I think my eyes were just… exhausted. I had just finished 5 1/2 months of nonstop work on the deck: 51 illustrations and 17,000 words. It was terribly late nights, not enough breaks, and more than likely burn out. My eye was acting up, and I think the optometrist honestly had the best of intentions. In his mind, my eyes over converged and a prism would help with the blurring.

My eyes had another idea. They absolutely hated it.

I went back and expressed my concerns, but they told me I needed to “get used to them”. Let’s be real though— that wasn’t going to happen.

Without going in to all of the details of my prescription fiasco, the short version of a long story is that I saw three different optometrists, each of whom continued to prescribe me varying degrees of prism, ranging from a 1 to a 2, to finally a 0.5 in just one eye.

When I picked up the last pair of lenses, I knew almost immediately that something was wrong. If you’ve never worn prism lenses, the only way I can describe how they feel is this: imagine a tiny fisherman reeling in your pupil in the opposite direction of where it wants to go. If that sounds like it would absolutely suck, you’re correct.

When I told optometrist number 3 that they felt off, I was met with (and I quote) “Don’t be precious. Just wear them for a few days.”

So I did.

And on day 5 in the middle of a lecture, I completely lost my eyesight.

I think I should probably clarify what that means. My vision didn’t black out or anything. It was more like it fractured. Suddenly I saw in doubles, triples, and quadruples, like a human kaleidoscope. Except that I couldn’t see color too well either. Everything was pale, pastel, and dulled.

I spent the rest of 2023 trying to see again.

At first, Simon and I visited every specialist we could find. He became my seeing-eye human, helping me navigate from one hospital to the next and to every doctor’s appointment around our borough. He also took over walking Abby and handling anything involving sharp objects—navigating the neighborhood and cooking were officially off my list of unsupervised activities.

Eventually, we gave up trying to make sense of it. Every doctor I saw seemed completely baffled. One hospital tried to “fix” it by prescribing yet another prism (a level 6 this time—bloody madness). My GP offered me steroids, which I politely declined. The chances were high that once the steroid wore off, I would be back to square one. And I didn’t want to put my system through that.

I wasn’t sure what to do, so at first I turned inward. I wore a lot of sunglasses. I leaned into homeopathy and mindfulness. I did a lot of Yoga. I filled the flat with plants to mimic being outside. I drank an absurd amount of carrot juice, and surprisingly, I went places. Simon made sure of it! They weren’t long trips, but it was enough to get me out of the house and distract me from the fact that I couldn’t see.

Carrot juice, acupuncture, sunglasses, repeat. 2023 was weird.

Eventually, I found an amazing acupuncturist in my neighborhood and he helped shift the tide. Dr. Chen was a guiding light, and I’m so grateful I found him. My eyes improved a lot under his care (and his abundance of needles). After that, things started to move forward and I formed the most important thing needed when trying to heal. A community.

Our dear friends Anne and James watched Abby whenever we needed to go to the hospital, and they became regulars for catchups over tea and homemade cake (Anne is, without exaggeration, the best baker I’ve ever met). I made friends with Norman, a wonderful elderly gentlemen, after one of my first solo outings while waiting for Simon to lead me back home. I ended up joining his bridge club (I still don’t understand the game rules and I was around 35 years younger than everyone there) but I enjoyed getting out of the house and having tea and biscuits. Through Norman, I met Gennie, a nurse working at the Alms House, and became great friends with her and her family. I became closer to Madie, a dear friend and colleague from my Edinburgh postgrad, and Robert, a brilliant writer that I adored almost instantly.

Despite having lived in our flat in Richmond for 2 years, I finally met my neighbors. And LOVED them. Mirela and I bonded quickly over shared interests, and it felt like I had known her forever. (And who knew that Spanish and Romanian were such similar languages?!) Our local coffee shop and delicatessen became more than local places to shop. They were safe havens, filled with friendship and guaranteed hugs with each cup of coffee served. Looking back, I realize how lucky I was to find all of that. This community? It turns out, it was there all along. It only took losing my eyesight to see it.

It took me 6 months to get a diagnosis: a severe case of optic neuritis most likely triggered by inflammation caused by a mis-prescribed prism lens.

It took me 8 months to fully see color again.

It took me almost a year and a half to get a prescription I could actually use. And three more optometrists: one failed attempt in London, one mediocre try in California, and finally, one in Scotland who actually nailed it. (It took a bit of tweaking over two different appointments, but ultimately we got there!)

2023 and 24 were complicated health years. There’s so much more I could say, but I think diving too deep into the medical details risks overshadowing the more important lessons this experience gave me.

Because there were lessons. Big ones!

Losing my eyesight became a catalyst for some long-overdue growth.

I learned to trust myself. I don’t care what degree someone has or from where, when it comes to my body and what feels right, I know best. Turns out, I am the specialist.

I learned how to set boundaries. For the first time in my life, I became comfortable saying no. That whole thing “you can’t pour from an empty cup” thing? That’s 100% true. I learned that other peoples wants don’t come before my own needs. And I learned how to treat myself like a best friend should.

I learned that I was always more of a fine artist. I will always love storytelling and exploring narratives, but I also love the slow and meditative practice of painting by hand. I love the craft of it all! Too many professors try to spoon-feed this idea that fine art and illustration must be separate, and I wholeheartedly disagree. Art doesn’t need labels— it’s counterintuitive to the creative process. Art can be anything and everything all at once. And for goodness sakes, why is anyone trying to control something creative by breaking it into pieces?

I learned who my friends were. They came from unexpected places, but man— did they show up when I needed them. I lost some friends too, also unexpected ones that I had known for forever. I learned that not every friend is meant to stay in your life — some people are only there for a season. That doesn’t have to be devastating either. It’s just the natural flow of life.

And maybe most importantly, when I did start painting again I explored genres and themes that interested me. After years of doing commissions, I got used to painting what other people wanted. Now though? I’m painting the things that make me happy. And hopefully, when others see the work, they’ll feel some of that joy too.

To keep this from getting too long, I’ll share my new artwork in another post. I thought the new work should be introduced with joy. Because that’s how all good chapters start, right?

Talk soon!

x

Manda