When I first got the assignment, I panicked a little.
“David is nonverbal, deaf, and legally blind,” the director told me. “You’ll be shadowing him for the semester.”
I was fresh out of grad school, full of theories and strategies but zero hands-on experience with a student like him. I figured I’d be helping him with basic tasks—wheelchair positioning, some tactile learning, maybe sensory activities. I way underestimated him.
He was already two steps ahead of me.
David had his own communication system—vibrating switches, textured symbols, even a custom keyboard he could tap with his knuckles. His aides had worked out this incredible rhythm with him, but what stunned me most was how sharp he was. He could solve math problems in his head faster than I could write them down. And when he “spoke” through his devices, his humor was next-level dry.
Once, I tried explaining the weather to him using a felt board with puffy clouds. He tapped three buttons in quick succession and his device said:
“I’m not five.”
I cracked up. And from then on, we clicked.
What people didn’t understand about David was that he wasn’t defined by his disabilities. He wasn’t a pity case or someone to be treated with kid gloves. He was smart, sharp, and incredibly funny. He didn’t need someone to take care of him; he needed someone who could match his energy, his intellect, and his creativity.
At first, I thought the assignment was going to be straightforward—teaching David a few basic things, maybe helping him with daily routines. But I quickly realized how wrong I was. I wasn’t here to teach him anything. I was here to learn from him.
David had a way of seeing the world that I never could. Because he couldn’t rely on sight or sound the way the rest of us could, he developed a different way of processing information. His mind was a sponge, absorbing everything through touch, vibration, and intuition. I was amazed at how deeply he understood concepts like space, time, and logic—all things that I’d spent years studying in textbooks, but had never quite understood the way he did.
One day, after a frustrating session where we struggled with a math problem, he tapped his keyboard. “Try a different approach,” it said. “You’re overthinking it.”
At first, I felt a pang of frustration. How could he know better? I was the trained one. But I decided to trust him and tried the problem again, this time simplifying it. Sure enough, his suggestion worked. The problem was solved in seconds.
It was moments like that, time after time, that started to shift my perspective. David was teaching me patience, problem-solving, and humility in ways I never thought possible. I spent years in the classroom, learning all the theories, all the methodologies, but nothing had come close to the lessons he was giving me.
As the semester went on, we developed a rhythm together. I stopped seeing myself as the teacher and started seeing David as the guide. His ability to navigate through challenges, his resilience, and the way he tackled problems with sheer determination—it all inspired me to be better. He didn’t let anything define his limitations, and because of that, I learned not to let mine define me.
But the real turning point came a few months in. I had been struggling with my own doubts about my career path, about whether I was making the right choices. I had dreams of going into research, but the pressures of daily life, the constant rush to keep up, and the fear of failure had left me feeling unsure of myself.
One afternoon, after a particularly tough day, I found myself sitting next to David as he worked on his math problems. I wasn’t exactly in the mood to talk, but I sat with him, trying to be a quiet presence, just like I had been taught.
He tapped his keyboard. “You’re thinking too much.”
I laughed. “It’s hard not to, you know? I’ve been feeling lost lately. Like I don’t know where I’m supposed to be.”
David’s response was simple but profound. He tapped again. “You’re focusing on the wrong things.”
I was taken aback. “What do you mean?”
“You’re looking at what you don’t have,” his device said. “What’s in front of you is all that matters. Stop looking at the end. Look at now.”
It was like a punch to the gut. David had no concept of the future the way I did. He couldn’t. His world was made of the now—the present moment. But somehow, in that moment, I realized he was right. I had spent so much time worrying about the next step, about where I was going, that I had forgotten to truly live in the present. To appreciate what I had right now.
From then on, I started to change my approach to everything. I stopped comparing myself to others, stopped worrying so much about the pressure to succeed. I focused on doing the best I could in the moment, with the resources I had, and let the rest come as it may.
It wasn’t easy, and it didn’t happen overnight. But slowly, I started to notice the shift. My confidence grew, my relationships deepened, and I became more intentional with my work. I found peace in not knowing the future, and I stopped letting my insecurities hold me back.
The more I worked with David, the more I realized how much I had taken for granted. I had been so focused on my goals, on achieving something grand, that I had forgotten what it felt like to just be. To live in the moment. To appreciate the people around me.
But David’s perspective didn’t just change my professional life. It changed my personal life too. I began to embrace a new sense of gratitude. Every day, I looked for the small things—those moments of stillness, the laughter of friends, the quiet comfort of a good conversation. I realized that I had so much to be thankful for, even when things weren’t perfect.
The karmic twist came a few months later, when I found out that David had been accepted into a prestigious program that would allow him to continue his education. It was a breakthrough, not just for him, but for the entire field of disability education. The program was designed specifically for students with disabilities, aiming to give them access to higher education and the chance to pursue careers in technology, mathematics, and more.
The thing that struck me the most wasn’t just David’s academic achievement—it was how much his presence had changed everything around him. His story had inspired so many people in the community. His resilience, his brilliance, had opened doors for others. He wasn’t just learning from me; he was teaching all of us.
I’ll never forget the moment when the director of the program called me to say that they wanted to bring me on board to help develop a new initiative for students like David. I was overwhelmed with gratitude and amazement. It felt like the universe had aligned everything, as if all the lessons David had taught me were now guiding me toward a path I never expected.
Through David, I had learned to embrace the present, to trust in the process, and to let go of the need for control. And now, because of him, my career was taking a new direction—one that was more meaningful, more aligned with my passions, and more in tune with the values I held dear.
In the end, David’s lesson was simple, yet profound: life isn’t about the destination. It’s about the journey. It’s about finding joy in the present, in the moments that seem small, but are really the ones that matter most.
So, if you’re ever feeling lost, or like you’re not where you think you should be, remember David’s words: “Look at now.” Appreciate where you are, because you never know what lessons are waiting for you, right in front of you.
Please share this story with anyone who might need a reminder to live in the present and embrace the journey. Thank you for reading, and don’t forget to like and share if it resonated with you. Let’s all take a moment to appreciate the now.
