I tell my story a lot. I tell the story of how I wasn’t always blind. I tell the story of how I lost my vision while serving in Afghanistan, by stepping on an I.E.D. I tell the story of how I put my own injury into perspective by considering the greater sacrifice of my fallen comrades, and how I owed it to them to make the most of my escape from death.

I tell the story of how I did that by winning a gold medal in swimming at the Paralympics on the first anniversary of the loss of my vision. And after I tell it, people often thank me. They tell me that it’s an incredible story, and that I’m a good storyteller. They tell me how inspiring it is to see how I’ve overcome my blindness.

But that’s not my whole story.

It’s part of it, I suppose — in many ways, I have overcome my blindness. Five years after losing my sight, I have a rewarding job teaching leadership at the Naval Academy, a lovely house on a creek in historic Annapolis, Md., a loving family and a number of truly deep friendships. My quality of life is very high. Day to day, week to week, I don’t find that my blindness is an obstacle.

What I haven’t been able to overcome is how others perceive me and treat me differently now because of my blindness, or how I so often feel as if I’m on the outside listening in on the lives of others.