Comfort in Darkness

Darkness has always felt like a contradiction to me: part threat, part refuge. And now feels like the right moment to share these thoughts—as the days shorten and we edge toward the clocks going backwards for winter.

Being alone at night can be utterly terrifying—filled with uncertainty, hidden dangers, and a suffocating sense of unease. While I could go out alone at night if I absolutely needed to, it’s not something I would ever choose to do. There would always be someone else there willing to guide me. Even if I know the route by heart and could technically walk it alone, I still move closer to the person guiding me. The dark adds strain: scanning for obstacles like overhanging branches or bins sticking out on the pavement, flinching at sudden voices of passersby that appear without warning. The street at night feels unpredictable—every shadow a question mark.

And yet, at the same time, there’s something deeply calming about the stillness that darkness brings after a long, chaotic day. At home, the dark feels safe. It’s often the time I take my implants off and let myself exist in the most natural state—no artificial sounds, no visual demands. Just stillness. It’s like stepping into a refuge where the noise fades, the world slows down, and I can breathe in calm.

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Living With Night Blindness

Living with Usher Syndrome, I’ve experienced night blindness since I was six years old. But it’s only recently, as I’ve matured and my sight has worsened, that I’ve come to fully understand my unique relationship with darkness. On one hand, navigating a world that grows darker and more overwhelming can feel isolating and scary. On the other hand, there’s a profound relief that comes with stepping into a darkened room where no one expects me to see, where the visual strain disappears. In those moments, darkness doesn’t feel like an enemy. It feels freeing. Comforting. Even relaxing.

I actually prefer a darkened room for certain activities—reading on my iPad, playing video games, or watching TV—because it helps me see details and colours more clearly with less effort. In these spaces, darkness isn’t a limitation; it’s an advantage. It allows me to participate to my full potential.

That same surprising comfort in darkness shows up in places most people wouldn’t expect—like underground.

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Freedom in Caves

I remember one moment vividly: a hike at USHthis UK summer camp in August 2024. We had stopped briefly to go through a tunnel-like cave, and I left my cane outside with someone who stayed behind. As soon as I stepped in, my other senses—smell, touch, and sound—kicked in instinctively. These are the skills I use every day, honed and finely tuned over years, and in a cave they come alive like instinct. I don’t even think about it anymore—it just happens.

Behind me was Lindsey, a fully sighted and hearing staff member who, to my surprise, was a little scared of the dark, cramped space. Without even thinking about it, I guided her through. I’d say things like, “At 2 o’clock, there’s a sharp rock—mind your head,” while tapping it so she’d know what to avoid.

Anna and Linsey in the cave

Later, as I lay in bed, the moment really struck me: how strange it must have been for her to be guided so confidently through a cave by me—the person who was probably the most visually impaired in the group, and someone she’d spent the day watching others guide around. The role reversal was surreal.

A few weeks later, I learned from Jessica at Usher Kids that Lindsey had even told her about it on the drive home—how amazed she’d been by the experience. Hearing that made me realise it hadn’t just been a turning point for me, but for her too.

Over time, I’ve done other caving experiences where torches were provided, but I often choose not to use them. I prefer to embrace my other senses fully—the echo of voices, the cool dampness of the stone, the earthy smell of the air. Underground, everyone is relying on touch, sound, and awareness, but for me those skills feel natural, even empowering. I wish I could do caving more often.

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Fear vs. Comfort

The contrast between walking down a dark street and being in a dark room or cave couldn’t be starker. On the street, darkness feels chaotic and disorienting. Indoors or underground, it feels calm, predictable, and even soothing. One is a strain on my body and mind; the other gives me a chance to let go.

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Embracing Empowerment

It’s taken me years to come to terms with my relationship with darkness. For a long time, fear overshadowed everything else. But gradually, I’ve learned that darkness isn’t always something to fight—it can also be a source of strength. In caves and quiet rooms, I’ve discovered my ability to adapt, to lean on my other senses, and to find peace in the unfamiliar.

Moments like that camp hike showed me something even more profound: darkness can empower. It can flip roles, shift perspectives, and remind me of what I’m capable of. For all its challenges, darkness has taught me that even in the absence of light, there can be calm. There can be empowerment. And there can even be joy.