VT Works

Working with people day in and day out can be extremely rewarding. As they progress, both in life and within a tailor made Vision Therapy program, it can feel very good to know we have played a small part in their newfound success. Yes, they did most of the work, and yes, they deserve most of the credit; but there is one small piece, even if it’s just a sliver, that belongs to you, to me, and to the rest of Developmental Optometry. We deserve credit for our passion, for our desire to help, and perhaps most of all, for the daily energy it takes to help someone move from a life of struggle toward one of success.

Let me pause here to say very clearly that I am not a pat-myself-on-the-back type of person; much to my own detriment. Simply put, compliments and accolades make me uncomfortable. I would much rather do my best and then disappear into the shadows, content knowing the work was done quietly, correctly, and with integrity. But every once in a while, a moment comes along that gently refuses to stay hidden. One that asks to be acknowledged not for praise, but for perspective. When that happens, it feels less like standing in the spotlight and more like standing still long enough to recognize why the work matters, and why showing up fully, imperfectly, and human, will never be the wrong answer.

Interestingly enough, spending all day, every day talking with people tends to bring many topics to the surface beyond Vision Therapy. We hear about families, friends, spouses, kids, neighbors, cars, vacations, pets, and jury duty, just to name a few. These conversations weave themselves naturally into the therapy room, reminding us that vision does not exist in isolation, and neither do our patients.

I was reminded recently of just how deeply those conversations can matter. It all started in August of 2024 when a young female patient shared information that required my immediate attention. This was not the kind of information managed with lenses or prisms, vergence ranges or accommodative flexibility. This was the kind that requires pause, presence, and action. Action that involved the authorities, protection, and a strong, carefully coordinated support system.

I have always wondered what it would feel like if that moment were to happen to me. I speak of the moment when the role quietly shifts, when you are no longer just a therapist guiding visual development, but an adult standing firmly between a child and harm. The truth is, there is no script. There is only instinct, ethics, and an unwavering commitment to safety. In moments like that, the credit we spoke of earlier matters in a different way. Not as recognition, but as responsibility. Because being part of this profession means showing up not only for progress charts and milestones, but for the human being sitting across from us, especially when they need us most.

Yesterday, I received a phone call from that family. It wasn’t to ask a question, schedule an appointment, or clarify next steps. It was simply to thank me again for continuing care, for continuing to check in with them from time to time, to wish me Happy Holidays, and to let me know that things are better, safer, quieter, and much more stable than they were the last time we were in the same space. Those words lingered long after the call ended, settling into a space that doesn’t get filled very often.

What struck me most was not what they said, but why they called at all. In a season filled with errands, obligations, and noise, they took the time to reach out, not because they had to, but because they wanted to. Because in a moment of fear and uncertainty, someone had listened, taken them seriously, and helped guide them toward the help they needed. Their success is living proof that sometimes having someone listen fully is all it takes to change the trajectory of a story.

It’s easy to measure success in Vision Therapy by data points and outcomes. We all want better tracking, stronger convergence, improved stamina, and clearer vision. But there are moments that defy measurement, moments that remind us why we chose this work in the first place. Moments when the therapy room becomes a place of safety, and trust becomes just as powerful as any clinical tool we have at our disposal. I hope to never lose sight of that fact, as I have come to realize it to be the quiet gift of this profession. Long after the exercises are complete and the charts are put away, what remains is connection. The knowledge that, for a brief moment in time, you were exactly where you needed to be do exactly what was needed for someone else, and it made an incredible difference.

Leaning into that reminder is still something I am getting used to.