Maybe Blind People Do Mingle — Just Not the Way You Think

I named this blog Blind People Don’t Mingle after noticing a pattern in my own life and naming it honestly in my first post, you can read it here: First Blog Post. It wasn’t meant to be literal-it was meant to capture a disconnect. Again and again, I found myself in spaces built around a kind of social interaction that didn’t quite work for me. I also wanted to create awareness and help people better understand what those experiences are actually like. I needed language that would make people pause long enough to question why.

The name of this blog is Blind People Don’t Mingle. It’s a bold name. A slightly uncomfortable name. And technically, not true.

Because blind people do mingle-just not in the way most people imagine. And that difference matters.

When you think of mingling, you probably picture a room buzzing with noise. People shifting in and out of groups. Eye contact across the room. A smile that says come join us. A pause that feels like an opening. Mingling, in the traditional sense, is a deeply visual activity.

And that’s exactly the problem.

When I say blind people don’t mingle, what I really mean is that mingling, as it’s commonly understood, is fraught with challenges. We don’t mingle the way the world expects mingling to work.

At banquets. At parties. At crowded networking events. Mingling is supposed to feel effortless. Natural. Casual. You walk up to someone and start chatting. You spot someone you know across the room and go over. You slide into a group conversation at just the right moment.

For me, it’s none of those things.

I’m an extrovert. I love people. I love conversation and connection and laughter. I wish mingling were that simple.

But in a crowded room, sighted people rely on visual shortcuts they rarely even notice: eye contact to signal openness, body language to read a group, facial expressions to judge timing, physical positioning to see who’s available.

Without those cues, social space becomes uncertain terrain.

I don’t know who is near me unless they speak. I don’t know whether a group is private or open. I don’t know if a pause is an invitation-or just a breath before someone else continues.

Joining a conversation can feel like stepping onto a moving train without knowing where the doors are. And sometimes, the person I’m talking to walks away without saying anything, leaving me talking to air.

So sometimes I wait. Sometimes I stay seated, hoping someone will come to me. So often, I’ll sit alone pretending to be busy with something on my phone or in my bag rather than just seem to be sitting by myself. Sometimes I look quiet.

Not because I don’t want to mingle, but because I’m trying not to get it wrong.

This becomes even more complicated when mingling isn’t optional.

At banquets and community events, mingling is part of my role. Relationship-building matters. Presence matters. Being visible, ironically, matters. And these environments are often the hardest to navigate: loud rooms, clinking dishes, overlapping conversations, constant movement.

I can’t scan the room for familiar faces. I can’t see who to greet. I can’t tell who is waiting for an introduction.

Inside, it feels like a social obstacle course, listening, tracking location, managing timing, projecting confidence-all at once. From the outside, it may look like I’m standing alone by choice. From the inside, I’m working harder than most people in the room.

There’s a common belief that extroversion is visible, that if someone wants to connect, it will be obvious. But extroversion is about desire, not access.

I want conversation. I want connection. I want community.

What I don’t always have are the same entry points into social space.

So blind people often mingle differently. We may prefer one-on-one conversations. We may thrive in structured settings. We may light up once a conversation begins-even if getting there took enormous effort.

The mingling happens. It just happens differently.

When you see a blind person standing quietly at a social event, it’s easy to assume they’re shy, withdrawn, or don’t want to be there. What you don’t see is the internal navigation happening beneath the surface-the listening, the timing, the calculations, the courage it takes to enter a conversation without knowing how or if you’ll be received.

Blind people don’t mingle less. We mingle differently.

And sometimes, what looks like stillness is actually persistence.

Written By Michelle Friedman

Michelle Friedman is the board chair of Keshet in Chicago, a member of Disability Lead and has been a disability advocate for 40 years. She has written two children’s books and is a frequent speaker for elementary and high school-age students. #AllInForAllAbilities