by Jennifer Bazer
Every fall, I find myself paying a little more attention to the trees. They don't resist the changing seasons. They don't cling to yesterday's leaves. They simply let them go, making room for new growth.
I can't help but wonder if people were meant to learn from trees, too.
If there's one thing blindness has taught me, it's that learning never ends. Not because those of us who are blind enjoy change — most of us don't — but because life has a way of inviting us to become beginners over and over again.
As children, learning is celebrated. Every new skill is a milestone. Then adulthood arrives, and somewhere along the way we begin believing we should already have the answers.
But life has a way of reminding us that growth doesn't end when school does. For those of us who are blind, becoming a beginner isn't unusual. We learn new travel techniques, new technology, new routes, and new ways of accomplishing everyday tasks. Every season asks something different of us.
Looking back, I realize blindness taught me something far more valuable than any single skill. It taught me to ask a different question. Not, "Why can't I?" But, "How can I?"
That simple shift changed far more than the way I traveled. It shaped the way I lead. The way I advocate. The way I parent. The way I live.
This past year tested that lesson in ways I never expected. After nearly three decades of traveling with guide dogs, I found myself returning to my white cane while waiting for the right match. At first, it felt like I was losing something.
Instead, I rediscovered something. My independence had never lived in a harness. It had always lived within me. The cane didn't take me backward. It reminded me of everything I had learned along the way.
Around the same time, my career took an unexpected turn. Like so many people, I found myself wondering what came next. Eventually, I realized I was asking the wrong question. Instead of asking, "Why is this happening?" I returned to the question blindness had been teaching me all along. "How can I grow through this?"
That question didn't erase the uncertainty. But it changed the way I walked through it.
Some of the greatest lessons in my life have come from seasons I never would have chosen. One of the greatest gifts ACB has given me is the reminder that none of us has to keep learning alone.
Some of my greatest teachers have never stood at the front of a classroom. They've sat beside me in convention sessions. Shared technology tips during Zoom calls. Encouraged me to try something new when I wasn't sure I could. Cheered me on throughout the JPMorganChase Leadership Program.
When I look around ACB, I see people turning over new leaves every day. Someone is learning Braille later in life. Someone is trying a new piece of assistive technology. Someone is using a cane for the first time. Someone is mentoring a newly blind member. Someone is discovering that retirement is the beginning of an entirely new adventure.
We celebrate those moments because we understand something important. None of us ever really graduates. We simply keep becoming.
I've come to believe that learning isn't simply about gaining knowledge. It's about remaining teachable. It's about believing that beginning again is not the same as failing. It's trusting that every season — even the ones we wouldn't choose — has something to teach us. Maybe that's what turning over a new leaf really means. Not becoming someone different. But giving ourselves permission to keep becoming.
The healthiest trees don't cling to yesterday's leaves. They trust another season is coming. I hope I never lose that kind of trust. The willingness to keep learning. The courage to keep asking, "How can I?" The humility to believe that no matter what season comes next, there is still something beautiful waiting to grow.
Perhaps that's what it really means to fall in love with learning. Not collecting more information. Not having all the answers. But remaining curious enough to keep asking, "How can I?" Because every season invites us to let go, trust what we cannot yet see, and make room for new growth. I'm beginning to think the trees have been teaching us all along.