Navigating Life with Facial Recognition Disorder

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Seeing Beyond Faces: Navigating Life with Facial Recognition Disorder. I love people and community. They are the core of what drives me, energises me, and gives life its richest meaning. Yet, for years, I felt a dissonance that I couldn’t quite name. I also felt embarrassed that I couldn’t remember individual people, and sad when I learned I had yet again snubbed someone unintentionally.

As a child, I told myself I forgot and couldn’t recognise others because I moved so often. In college, well, I think we know what I told myself in college. As a global consultant, I told myself it was because I worked with so many people all over the world. Then as a young mother, I blamed it on being exhausted and overextended.

It wasn’t until my very late 30s that I discovered the actual reason: I have facial recognition disorder, also known as face blindness or, more formally, prosopagnosia.

This condition means that I struggle to recognise people – yes, even white people (this is a surprisingly frequent question). The faces of celebrities, friends, and acquaintances blur together in my mind.

My brain does allow me to capture and retain the faces of those I see regularly, but even this is inconsistent, and can be impacted by a hair or weight change.

Most of the time, if I hear a voice or see a name, the stories and connections we’ve shared come back to me. But those initial moments of confusion can be uncomfortable for both me and the person who clearly recognises me. It is truly painful to accidentally snub someone.

In retrospect, I see now that I inadvertently – and thankfully – crafted a strategy to navigate this challenge: I use friendliness and enthusiasm to mask my confusion and slow recognition.

In just about every social interaction, I have chosen to lean into warmth, hoping it would bridge the gap created by my brain’s limitations by asking a lot of questions.

For years, I thought I was selfish and self-centered because others could clearly pay better attention and remember faces. My husband even got into the habit of following me in rooms, whispering to me if I already knew someone or not. For many years, I was an immigrant living in Germany and others just assumed I’d forgotten a word or phrase rather than an entire person.

It wasn’t until my son was being evaluated by experts to understand more how his brain works that I got my own breakthrough. I failed to recognise the lead doctor (again). He laughed and then changed my life, giving me the term “facial recognition disorder.” He summed up how some of my quirks added up in his unfazed way, assuming that I already knew.

I did not know, but I grabbed onto that phrase like a beautiful key to understanding and, eventually, acceptance.

I left that office and quickly completed an online quiz confirming that yes, I have a slight limitation in my brain. I truly do fail to recognise people. Not because I am selfish or distracted but because my brain prioritises your story, your voice, and your atmosphere over your face.

Thankfully, my version of face blindness isn’t that severe and I can work with it. Now, a few years down this path, I’m able to make sense of many memories in a new way.

For example, one of the best bosses I ever had is a white man from Australia. Before we walked into an important meeting, he asked how strong his rosacea looked. I was confused: first, I didn’t know what rosacea was at the time and second, I know now that I couldn’t see his face in my brain enough to compare how he looked on that day to any other day. In short, he looked like him.

Listen, I’m not known for avoiding awkward conversations, but even after he explained what rosacea was to me as we charged down the hallway, I couldn’t see it. He was frustrated, he needed to know before a very important presentation. I was embarrassed. I wasn’t trying to lie: I couldn’t tell.

Frankly, if I had seen it, I would have told him how it looked. But I didn’t and I couldn’t. I carried that embarrassment for years. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever told him, so I’ll do so here:

Pete, I couldn’t tell. I most likely still couldn’t. But I do know that you crushed that presentation. The executives were nodding and your voice was clear and friendly. You set us all up to be successful, and maybe your cheeks were red. Thank you and sorry ‘bout that.

Even though I discovered that I have some face blindness in 2017, it wasn’t until two years ago in 2022 that I finally felt confident enough to start being real about my limitation.

Now when I met new people and I enjoyed the connection, as we say goodbye, I explain about my “goofy brain.” I tell them that I enjoyed our conversation and then I might not recognise them next time. Not because I don’t care or value our new connection, but because my brain simply works differently. I laugh and ask for grace, letting them know that I look forward to talking again.

The responses I’ve receive have been transformative. People’s reactions have taught me so much about vulnerability, self-knowledge, and the power of chosen disclosure. It’s been humbling and heartwarming to see how many people offer me understanding, speak to me as they approach, or give me time to place them as my brain works to hold onto their presence.

Still, it’s embarrassing when I snub someone despite my best efforts, especially after small physical changes. Yet, I’m deeply grateful for the kindness of those who remember my struggle and meet me halfway.

Last month I read Sadie Dingfelder’s book on prosopagnosia. It was on revelation after another. It strengthened and comforted me in ways I didn’t expect. Her candid discussions about awkward phone calls, messy in-person experiences, diligent note-taking, and the extensive effort required to complete her work resonated deeply. I may never recognise her face, but her voice and words have left an indelible mark on me.

Living with facial recognition disorder could feel isolating. I adore people. I yearn for closeness, community, and the joy of being embedded in a shared space with others. Prosopagnosia challenges that longing but doesn’t diminish it.

I know that my ability to capture and retain how others’ feel and their stories is a super-strength as a coach for women in tech. I know now that my assumption that I know everyone and choosing kindness is why I rarely experience stage fright as a speaker.

I see and am grateful for the many insights and facts that have been shared with me as well as how many intimate human stories have been entrusted to me because I ask so many questions and truly want to connect with each human.

To those who embrace my journey, who speak as they approach, and who offer me grace in moments of struggle – thank you. You remind me that connection isn’t limited to recognition; it’s about trust, curiosity, imperfection, and being fully human.

Here is to you and to me, from one quirky brain to another.

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