More Than What You See: Navigating Vision Loss and Mental Health

At 25, Austin Linton was doing what he’d always done—chasing adrenaline. Austin preferred being in motion over sitting still, whether it was skateboarding, snowboarding, or riding motorcycles. But one day, in the middle of a ride, something changed.

“I couldn’t see around me,” recalls Austin. “It was wild and terrifying.”

What came next wasn’t gradual. It was abrupt, disorienting, and impossible to ignore. Seemingly overnight, Austin’s vision shifted in a way he couldn’t explain. There had been signs before, but nothing that prepared him for this moment. Eventually, genetic testing confirmed a diagnosis of Usher syndrome type 2A, a condition that causes retinitis pigmentosa (RP) and hearing loss.

The diagnosis brought clarity, but it also brought uncertainty, fear, and a flood of questions about the future.

Austin was the first in his family to receive this diagnosis. There was no roadmap, no one who could say, “I’ve been through this.” While his family was close, the reality was that they were all learning in real time.

“You walk into a doctor’s office, and you walk out knowing you’re going blind,” says Austin. “But you don’t really understand what that means yet.”

In the months that followed, the impact of vision loss extended far beyond what Austin could see. Everyday moments began to change: going out with friends, navigating crowded spaces, and even moving confidently through familiar environments required more energy and intention. At the same time, he was trying to process what this meant for his future—his relationships, his independence, the life he had imagined for himself.

“It shattered me,” recalls Austin. “I started thinking about everything all at once. I didn’t feel good enough anymore.”

Without others in his family who shared the experience, and without a clear way to talk about it, Austin began to feel increasingly isolated. Even well-intentioned support could feel complicated. People didn’t always know what to say, or avoided the topic altogether, and that silence made it harder.

“I didn’t know anyone who understood it,” says Austin. “And I didn’t know how to explain it.”

As those feelings built, Austin pulled away. Social settings became overwhelming, and rather than risk awkward interactions or misunderstandings, he often chose to step back.

“I kind of disappeared for a while,” he says. “I was trying to deal with it on my own.”

During that time, he also turned to alcohol and drugs as a way to cope—an escape that, in the moment, felt easier than facing everything at once.

“It was easier to forget than to deal with what was happening,” he says. “But that’s not really coping. It just comes back heavier.”

That period became a breaking point, but also the beginning of a shift. Over time, Austin started to recognize that avoiding what he was feeling wasn’t helping him move forward.

“I realized I couldn’t keep doing that,” says Austin. “At some point, you have to face it.”

That shift didn’t happen all at once. It started with a decision to be more open and to stop carrying everything alone. At first, that meant small steps—sharing a little more, answering questions, allowing himself to be seen in situations where he once would have withdrawn.

“I wasn’t showing up as myself anymore,” he says. “That’s what pushed me to change.”

As he began to open up, something unexpected happened.

“I realized people weren’t judging me the way I thought they were,” he says. “They just didn’t understand before.”

That realization didn’t just change how he connected with others—it changed how he saw himself.

Instead of trying to hide his vision loss, Austin began to embrace it as part of his identity. And with that shift came a new sense of purpose, one that would eventually become Rare Perspective Co.

What started as a personal idea, something he created partly for himself, grew into something much bigger. Drawing directly from his own experiences, Austin set out to make conversations about blindness and low vision feel more natural and less uncomfortable.

Through thoughtfully designed clothing that incorporates humor, storytelling, and even QR codes that link to real experiences, Rare Perspective Co. creates an opening—an easier way for people to ask questions, connect, and understand.

“I wanted to make something that helps people feel confident being visible, not hiding who they are,” says Austin. “Rare perspective isn’t just shaped through the good—it’s earned through how you come out of the difficult moments.”

One of his shirt concepts, “EYECE Breaker,” builds on that idea, using lighthearted, real-life stories to spark connection and shift perception, both for people living with vision loss and for those who may not yet understand it. For Austin, that connection is everything.

Today, while vision loss remains a part of his daily life, it no longer defines what he believes is possible. He continues to travel, seek out new experiences, and pursue the things he loves, just in ways that work for him now.

“I still love my life,” says Austin. “I’m just navigating it differently.”

Looking back, Austin is honest about how difficult those early years were, and how much they tested his mental health. But he also recognizes the strength that came from working through them, not around them.

“You can’t skip the hard part,” he says. “You have to go through it.”

There was no single moment that changed everything. It was a process of acceptance, of learning, of choosing to keep showing up. And through that process, Austin found something steadier than certainty: a sense of self he didn’t have before.

“There is something on the other side of it,” he says.

And in his own words, a reflection that captures just how far he’s come:

“I may not always be able to clearly see my reflection anymore, but that doesn’t mean I can’t still see myself.”