Airports are funny places. They’re part circus, part puzzle, and part social experiment you didn’t know you signed up for. Every sound echoes, every smell is amplified, and if you happen to be blind, every stranger suddenly becomes either your guide, your obstacle, or your unsolicited motivational speaker.

On my most recent trip, I decided to do something I don’t usually do as a blind traveler: run an experiment. Not a scientific one with clipboards and data charts, more of a people experiment. I wanted to see how much perception influences the way people treat those of us who are blind or have low vision. Specifically, I wanted to know if there’s really such a thing as looking blind.

So, six flights, two airlines, three cities and one slightly guilty conscience later, I learned something both obvious and unsettling: the world sees blindness through sunglasses.

Testing a Theory at 30,000 Feet

I travel a lot, speaking at Retro Game Conferences and for Blind Travels, usually with my guide dog, Fauna, at my side. She’s the furry professional who keeps me from walking into things that beep or move, which is more often than you’d think. But this time, Fauna stayed home, and I brought along my white cane instead.

For the first journey, I did what I always do: I wore my regular glasses. No dark shades, no theatrics, just me, my cane, and a ticket. I walked into Denver International Airport ready to check in, find assistance, and navigate the usual chaos.

And… nothing. Not one person offered help.

Now, I’m no stranger to finding my way solo, but since this was an experiment, I decided to hold off on using Aira or Be My Eyes and see what happened. Eventually, I found the check-in counter and asked for someone to escort me to my gate. Mission accomplished, but it took effort and initiative on my part. The staff were polite, but hesitant, almost like they weren’t quite sure I needed help.

It was fine. Expected, even. But I couldn’t shake the thought: Would anything change if I looked the way people expect a blind person to look?

So, the following week – same airport same airline, I swapped my regular glasses for dark sunglasses. Indoors.

And right away, within steps of entering the terminal, someone approached me. “Hi there! Can I help you get to your gate?”

I hadn’t even opened my mouth yet.

It happened again in Portland, and again when I came back through Denver. The experiment repeated itself across six flights and two different airlines. The result was identical every time.

When I wore regular glasses, even when using a white cane, I was invisible.
When I wore dark sunglasses and used the cane, I was instantly recognized and assisted.

Apparently, I had achieved the look of “official blindness.”

This was only six flights, so arguably a small sample size, but enough to pique my interest in continuing this experiment further.

Binary Vision: Why People See in Black and White

The results shouldn’t have shocked me, but they did. After all, I worked in quality assurance and software development for decades, testing and observing human behavior is basically muscle memory. Still, I couldn’t believe the difference one pair of glasses made.

What’s interesting is that nothing else about me changed. Same white cane. Same route. Same airports. The only difference was the tint of my lenses.

That simple variable flipped a switch in how people perceived me, and that’s where this story gets uncomfortable.

Society tends to treat blindness like a binary condition: you can see, or you can’t. You’re sighted or you’re not. But anyone who’s lived with vision loss knows it’s not that simple. There’s a whole world of gray (sometimes literally). Some people see light but no detail; others see shapes, colors, or motion. Some use a cane for safety, not total blindness.

And yet, to the average passerby, blindness has an image: dark glasses, white cane, maybe a guide dog. If you don’t match the picture, you don’t fit the category.

That’s why the phrase “You don’t look blind” comes up so often. It’s meant kindly, but it lands somewhere between disbelief and dismissal. What people really mean is, “You don’t look like what I think blindness looks like.”

The problem is that blindness doesn’t look like anything. It’s not a costume.

Still, we live in a world built on visual shorthand. People trust what they see more than what they hear. And for sighted folks, dark glasses are a recognizable cue that says, “This person can’t see — it’s okay to help.” Without them, the message is lost in translation.

The Way of Offering Help

When I travel with regular glasses, people are polite but unsure. Directions become vague gestures: “It’s over there.” “Just go that way.”

Now, as a blind traveler, “that way” doesn’t really narrow it down. There’s a whole airport that way.

But when I put on the dark glasses, the entire tone of assistance changed. Directions suddenly came with landmarks and spatial cues. “The counter is about fifteen feet ahead on your left. We’ll pass a line of seats, then turn right toward the escalator.”

It was as if my sunglasses unlocked a secret accessibility mode in everyone I met.

The contrast wasn’t just about helpfulness; it was about confidence. People felt more comfortable offering guidance once they thought they understood my situation. The dark glasses told them how to behave, not just that I was blind, but that it was safe to engage.

It made me wonder how many people hesitate to help simply because they’re afraid of doing the wrong thing. Maybe those few square inches of tinted plastic make the uncertainty disappear.

The irony is that when I actually need the help most, I’m probably wearing my regular glasses.

The Spectrum Nobody Talks About

One of the biggest misconceptions about blindness is that it’s all or nothing, either you’re in total darkness or you’re faking it.

The truth is, vision loss exists on a spectrum. Some of us see enough to move through familiar spaces. Others rely on light, shadow, or sound to orient ourselves. Some use a cane for protection in crowds or low lighting. None of those experiences are less valid than another.

When someone assumes that blindness looks a certain way, they unintentionally erase that entire spectrum. They make it harder for people who are partially sighted to advocate for their needs without feeling like imposters.

And let’s be honest, imposter syndrome is real in our community. I’ve felt it myself. You catch yourself wondering, “Am I blind enough for people to believe me?” It’s a strange, guilty feeling, like you’re breaking some unspoken rule of disability.

But this experiment reminded me that the real issue isn’t how blind people look. It’s how the world has been trained to see us.

The Guilt of Performing Blindness

I’ll admit, part of me felt guilty about the whole experiment. I don’t like pretending, even for science. But curiosity got the better of me.

Wearing dark glasses indoors when you don’t need them feels performative, almost theatrical. Yet the difference it made was undeniable.

In some ways, I was standing on both sides of the equation, the blind traveler being judged, and the curious observer doing the judging.

It made me think about how much of life as a blind person is performative whether we like it or not. You put on your best “functioning adult” act every time you travel alone, navigate a lobby, or order coffee. You try to project independence while hoping someone nearby is paying enough attention to keep you from walking into a construction cone.

When you finally get offered help, it’s hard not to notice what triggered it, was it your need, or their perception of it?

It’s a strange kind of guilt. You don’t want to look more blind than you are, but you also don’t want to be ignored because you don’t look blind enough.

Beyond the Terminal: The Perception Travels With You

This isn’t just an airport thing. The same perception follows me into hotels, restaurants, museums — everywhere.

If I’m wearing regular glasses and holding a cane, staff might ask, “Do you need the menu?” but their tone is uncertain. With dark glasses, I get escorted directly to a seat, handed the Braille menu (if they have one), and offered detailed verbal explanations.

In hotels, the same thing happens. Wearing dark glasses, I’m given a full room tour and told about amenities. Without them, I get pointed toward “the elevators over there.”

It’s not malicious — it’s habit. People rely on visible cues to tell them how to behave.

What fascinates me is that traveling with my guide dog doesn’t make a big difference either. Whether it’s Fauna or the cane, the same pattern holds: dark glasses equal assistance; regular glasses equal ambiguity.

For my next trip, I plan to test the theory again, dark glasses and guide dog — just to see if the world explodes from too many disability indicators at once. I’m half expecting someone to salute me and clear the runway.

Training the World to See Differently

The deeper issue isn’t individuals; it’s training and exposure. Most people who assist travelers in airports are incredibly kind and patient, but their disability awareness training is minimal. They learn more about wheelchairs and mobility devices because they are more prevalent in our society, but not about the spectrum of blindness or how to offer help without assuming total dependence.

Many of the people tasked with assisting passengers are volunteers or part-time employees. Their experience with blind travelers might be limited to one or two interactions a month.

That’s why I make it a point to offer free training wherever I travel — whether it’s for airline staff, hotel employees, or restaurant teams. It’s my way of paying it forward for the next blind traveler. A short conversation about how to guide, what language to use, and how to describe surroundings can make all the difference.

Awareness training shouldn’t just teach how to help the blind, it should teach how to see us in the first place.

Because what my little experiment proved is that most people don’t see the cane first; they see the confidence of their own assumptions.

If we can retrain that perception, we can make travel, and life, a lot smoother for everyone.

When Helping Helps, and When It Doesn’t

There’s also an important message here for anyone who’s sighted: it’s always okay to offer help.

Really.

If you think someone might need a hand finding a gate, crossing a street, or navigating a restaurant, ask politely. The worst thing that can happen is they say, “Thanks, I’m fine.” The best thing that can happen is you make their day a little easier.

And if they decline, don’t take it personally, and even more importantly, don’t let it stop you from offering help to the next person. Every blind traveler is different. Some prefer independence, some prefer assistance, and most of us switch between the two depending on the situation (and the amount of caffeine in our system).

When you offer help, do it respectfully:

• Introduce yourself and ask if help would be useful.
• If yes, describe what you’re doing as you guide.
• If no, smile and move on.

Simple. Human. Effective.

The act of offering help isn’t what matters most, it’s the willingness to look beyond appearances.

Lessons Through a Tinted Lens

By the end of my little experiment, I wasn’t angry or frustrated, just fascinated. The data, as they say, was consistent across six flights, three airports, and two airlines.

Dark glasses: instant help, confident guidance, kindness with context.
Regular glasses: hesitation, uncertainty, and occasional confusion.

As an experiment, it worked perfectly. As a reflection of society, it’s a little sobering.

It shows how much we depend on visual cues to decide who deserves help, attention, or empathy. Those cues are often wrong, but they’re powerful.

It also reinforces that blindness is not a visual identity, it’s a functional one. You can’t tell by looking who can see what, or how much help someone needs.

Sometimes, it feels like blindness exists in the eye of the beholder.

A Little Humor at 10,000 Feet

There’s a part of me that can’t help but laugh about it. Who knew a pair of sunglasses could change social behavior faster than a viral TikTok trend?

Maybe dark glasses are the new superhero cape, except instead of hiding your identity, they reveal it to everyone else. Clark Kent takes off his glasses to become Superman; I put mine on, and suddenly I’m “visibly blind enough” for people to understand.

If it weren’t so ironic, it’d almost be poetic.

Still, humor aside, the point isn’t to shame anyone for offering help (or not offering it). It’s about awareness — understanding that perception shapes interaction, and that we all make assumptions based on appearances.

I just happen to have the unique opportunity to test those assumptions every time I travel.

Closing Thoughts: Beyond Appearances

Here’s what I hope people — sighted or not — take away from this:

You can’t always tell how much a person can see. You can’t judge independence by eyewear or mobility tools. And you definitely can’t assume that blindness looks like dark glasses and a white cane.

If you think someone might need help, just ask. Politely. And if they decline, no harm done.

To my fellow travelers with vision loss: don’t feel guilty about how you navigate the world. Whether you use a cane, a dog, an app, or a friendly stranger’s elbow, your blindness is valid. You don’t owe anyone an explanation or a performance.

And to everyone else — thank you for being curious, kind, and willing to learn. The more we talk about these perceptions, the more we can break them down.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned through all this, it’s that how people see blindness has everything to do with what they’ve been taught to look for.

Until next time, see you at the gate,

• Ted and Fauna