In 2017, I was laid off from my job; my parents told me they were moving to Denver; and our roommate broke the lease a year early — all within a couple weeks of each other. Every day of every year since that moment, that Ground Zero of my total loss, I have had the continuous feeling of falling.

When I woke up this past Sunday to find out I was inexplicably and completely blind in my right eye, I thought I had just hit another super thick branch in my fall into the dirt.

And then another when my third follow up visit to the opthomalogist included the words “possible permanent blindness.”

I’ve always been more afraid of losing my vision than I am of dying, and that news took me to a place I was not ready to go. So, I called my brother, and he walked me through my different options in seeking care and told me we’ll take it one day at a time. I called my mom, and she told me she loved me and then sent me photos of my niece’s first visit to the library.

And, most importantly, I called my long-time optometrist who made time for an emergency examination. He showed me break downs of the anatomy of my eye, googled photos of the virus he thought took root in my cornea, and showed me a picture of my own eye to compare. He didn’t think that the condition of the eye he saw today was at risk for permanent blindness.

He didn’t charge me any money, because he just wanted to make sure I was safe, and he gave me his personal cell phone number so I can keep him updated.

Between the excruciating moments until that beautiful second opinion from a provider I trusted, I also talked to a lot of other people: My college friend living in my city who listened and thanked me for trusting her with my vulnerability. A new friend and his husband who told me they believe I will be okay. My high school best friend let me have the only space that I could find to cry and then said “I love you” back when hanging up. My mentor at work who covered my project this afternoon so I could leave (he was actually the one to cry that time from relief of a stated future recovery).

I’m not out of the woods yet —

But, for now, I am taking comfort that in an hour of deep, existential dread, I surprisingly have lost that feeling of falling. For the first time in a long time, I feel held, supported, contained by the warmth of a community that cares.

Thank you to everyone for your kindness to me in my time of need.

I was so scared.