Aphantasia: When “Picture It” Meant Nothing to Me

Part 2: Aphantasia, Face Blindness, and How I Know People  

When I close my eyes and try to picture my mother’s face, I see nothing.Not a blur.Not a shadow.

Just black.

For most of my life, I didn’t think that was unusual.

I didn’t believe anyone could actually see something that wasn’t in front of them—unless they were dreaming. So when teachers said, “Close your eyes and picture it,” I couldn’t figure out what they meant.

I would close my eyes—and see nothing.

I assumed I must not understand the instructions, because surely no one could truly picture something they couldn’t see. That didn’t seem possible.

I remember being a homesick child, staying at my cousin’s house, and crying. My uncle sat with me, kind and sincere. He kept saying, “Close your eyes and picture your mom and dad. They’re still there.”

I could tell he believed that would help.

I didn’t have the words to explain that I couldn’t do that. I didn’t understand how he thought I could picture something in my mind. It simply wasn’t possible.

 I just cried harder.

It wasn’t until twelve years ago that I learned most people really can conjure images—and that those who can’t are the exception. There is a name for it: aphantasia.

Learning that felt like an enormous relief.

My mind does not visualize anything I cannot physically see. I am incapable of summoning unseen images. At first, I felt a little cheated—like everyone else had a superpower that I didn’t. But when I think about seeing images or flashbacks of things I’ve lived through, the idea feels frightening.

Ironically, as a teacher, I spent years watching students close their eyes and stare into space during tests, and I wondered, What are you doing? Waiting for a magic fairy to deliver the answer?

Turns out—some people really can see the page.

They can visualize diagrams.

Words.

I call those students cheaters.

(That’s a joke. Mostly.)

What I’ve learned is this: we assume everyone experiences the world the way we do—until we discover they don’t.

And once you understand that brains can be profoundly different in invisible ways, it becomes easier to understand. Students. Coworkers, family, and with the kid you once were—eyes closed, seeing nothing, and confused by the idea of counting sheep.