Through my eyes: What if you were the patient?

Daniel Morgan-Williams, th Founding Director of Visualise Training and Consultancy, talks to us about how to make your optical practice more accessible and inclusive:

Imagine waking up one morning and the world is not as sharp as it was yesterday. Street signs blur into a grey haze, the numbers on your phone are faint shadows, and the newspaper you usually devour might as well be printed in another language. This is what many people with low vision face daily. Now, imagine you are not a patient, but an optometrist or an optician. What would it feel like to be on the other side of your consulting room table? This article is not here to accuse but to invite you—step into the shoes of your patients for a moment.

You arrive at your own practice. The door is heavy, the signage small, the lighting dim. The letters on the wall chart that once guided your training now swim uselessly before your eyes. Where do you go? The reception desk is ahead, but the glossy posters on the walls are a blur. You shuffle forward uncertainly, hoping not to bump into a display stand. The journey from entrance to seating area—something you never thought about—is suddenly an obstacle course. This is the lived reality for many of your patients.

Now you are called in for your appointment. You sit opposite a colleague—you in the role of patient, them in the role of practitioner. They ask the usual questions, tick the boxes, perhaps sigh a little. Then they glance at you, shake their head, and say the dreaded words: ‘There’s not much we can do.’ In that moment, you feel dismissed. Not because there isn’t more to be done, but because your optometrist or optician has not chosen to see beyond the prescription.

Accessibility is not only about ramps and wider doorways. It is about time, dignity, and choice. Imagine if instead of rushing, your practitioner leaned forward, slowed their voice, and offered options. A handheld magnifier to start. A demonstration of a video magnifier or a smartphone app. A discussion about specialist sunglasses to reduce glare. Not everything will work for everyone, but every patient deserves the opportunity to explore solutions. Accessibility is providing that chance.

In Germany, many opticial practices proudly display video magnifiers and assistive technology in their windows. It is normalised, visible, and aspirational. Patients walking by can see that solutions exist. In the UK, far too often, these tools are hidden away, if they are stocked at all. Why is it easier to find a rack of designer frames than a magnifier that could help someone read their gas bill? Are we truly serving the needs of our communities, or are we prioritising the products that we assume will sell fastest?

Think about the emotional journey. A patient who receives empathy and practical support leaves with more than a device—they leave with hope. Hope that they can continue reading bedtime stories to their grandchildren, cooking their favourite meals, or travelling independently. When you provide that hope, you are not only changing their life but shaping how they talk about you to others. A single act of accessibility ripples outward—bringing families, friends, and entire communities back through your doors.

Accessibility is also about signposting. Imagine you are that patient, sitting in your consulting room chair. Would you feel more valued if your practitioner handed you a magnifier and rushed you out, or if they took a few extra minutes to talk about local sight loss charities, rehabilitation services, and social care support? Referring only to an ophthalmologist is not enough—medical intervention is part of the journey, but not the whole. Rehabilitation, peer groups, and local organisations help people rebuild confidence and independence. If you were the patient, wouldn’t you want your optician to know those services and point you towards them?

Humour has its place here too. Imagine you are told, ‘There’s not much we can do,’ and then you are handed a magnifier from 1997 that’s been hiding in a dusty drawer. It doesn’t exactly inspire confidence. Now imagine instead walking into a space where modern tools are on display, where staff take time to explain, and where you are offered dignity alongside practical support. Which of those experiences would you want if it were you?

The truth is, accessibility is not an add-on service. It is central to professional care. The Equality Act 2010 makes it clear that we have a duty to anticipate needs, not wait until patients ask. The College of Optometrists provides guidance on low vision care and patient support. But beyond compliance, there is humanity. No patient should walk away feeling invisible or dismissed. They should walk away feeling seen—perhaps not with perfect vision, but with understanding, options, and pathways.

So here is the challenge: Walk into your practice tomorrow, not as the professional, but as the patient. Cover one eye, blur your vision with smudged lenses, dim the lights in your imagination. Can you find your way? Can you read your own forms? Can you spot the solutions you claim to offer? If the answer is no, then something has to change.

Patients do not expect miracles. They expect time. They expect kindness. They expect you to listen without rushing, to offer options, and to guide them toward services that can make a difference. They want you to be curious on their behalf. To say, ‘Let’s explore what’s possible,’ rather than, ‘There’s nothing more we can do.’

If you were the patient, would you want your optician to spend five rushed minutes with you, or fifteen thoughtful ones? Would you like to leave with a single magnifier or with knowledge of technology, lighting, and local support networks? Would you want to feel like a problem or like a person worth investing in?

Low vision patients do not need pity. They need opportunities. And the truth is, accessibility benefits everyone. Clearer signage helps all visitors. Better lighting makes every consultation easier. Product displays create curiosity for all ages. Accessibility is not a niche—it is a universal advantage.

So I ask you, as a peer, as a patient, and as someone who has travelled across the UK delivering the Seeing Beyond the Eyes roadshow: If you were sitting in the chair, what would you want? What kind of optician would you hope to meet? The answer to that question should guide your practice. Because one day, you or someone you love may well be that patient. And you will hope that the person sitting opposite you chooses accessibility, empathy, and dignity.