If you had told me in October 2025 what the next 365 days would look like, I probably would have laughed. Not because I didn’t believe you, but because laughing at life’s ridiculous situations is kind of what I do for a living. My name is J.R. Bjornson. I’m a husband, a father of five, a stand-up comedian, a content creator, and a blind guy who somehow managed to make the past year one of the most interesting chapters of his life. And what a year it has been.
It all started with a pair of glasses.
In October 2025, I was fundraising for something that could potentially change my life: a pair of eSight Go electronic glasses. Thanks to the generosity of friends, family, complete strangers, and even an anonymous donor, we managed to raise thousands of dollars.
On November 18, 2025, I finally opened that box. For someone who had been legally blind since birth, suddenly being able to see things I had only imagined was incredible. I could see my family’s faces more clearly. I could play Uno with my children. I could recognize people from farther away.
But something unexpected happened. I discovered that seeing the world wasn’t always wonderful.
It was overwhelming. For nine years, I had performed stand-up comedy without really seeing the audience. I could hear their laughter, feel their energy, and trust that I was doing my job. Suddenly, I could see the people who weren’t laughing, the strangers staring at me, and the thousands of distractions that sighted people probably stopped noticing years ago. I had spent my entire life wanting to see more of the world, only to discover that sometimes, I preferred not seeing everything. Funny how life works.
Then came the silence.
At the end of 2025, I made a decision that probably surprised a few people. I stepped away from social media. For someone who had spent years creating videos, writing posts, livestreaming, and sharing almost everything, disappearing for a couple of months was unusual.
But I needed it. I wanted to spend more time living my life instead of constantly documenting it.
By March 2026, however, the creative itch returned. And when I came back, I came back with ideas. I started working on a book about my experiences in stand-up comedy. I explored making my own merchandise, invested in a payment system and started treating Blind Guy Comedy less like a hobby and more like a business. In April, I placed third at Calgary’s 26th Annual FunnyFest competition. It was another reminder that this blind guy from Red Deer might actually know a thing or two about making people laugh.
By summer, I was shipping merchandise overseas, learning more Braille, creating videos, training to become a community outreach worker, and continuing to perform comedy wherever somebody was willing to hand me a microphone. Sometimes the money was good. Sometimes I made $6.37 for 87 minutes of livestreaming. Don’t spend it all in one place, J.R.
But September changed everything.
After years of performing at other people’s comedy shows, I decided it was time to start building something of my own. Blind Guy Comedy Presents Open Mic Comedy Night officially launched at Beats & Bourbon Country Saloon in Springbrook, Alberta. What started as an idea became a real comedy room, where experienced comedians, newcomers, and people brave enough to try stand-up for the first time could share the stage. And people actually showed up! Later that month, I joined hypnotist Scot Ward on a three-city tour through Grande Prairie, Red Deer, and Lethbridge.
For the first time in a long time, I found myself sitting in a tour vehicle, travelling between cities, performing on beautiful stages, and thinking: Holy crap. I’m actually doing this. Nine years into my comedy career, I was discovering that perhaps my greatest passion wasn’t just telling jokes. It was creating opportunities for other people to tell theirs. By October, we were already planning a professional ticketed comedy show for December. Not bad for a guy who still occasionally walks into furniture. Of course, the biggest story was happening at home. Through every comedy show, business idea, and questionable purchase, my wife Sheena was there.
She helped with merchandise, travelled with me, supported my ambitions, and occasionally reminded me that not every idea needed to become a financial investment. We made memories together, including a trip to Radium Hot Springs that she had dreamed about for two years.
Meanwhile, our five children continued growing up faster than I was prepared for. One was getting too old for trick-or-treating. Another apparently wanted to be buried so he could haunt everybody.
Parenthood is beautiful. And mildly concerning.
Then there’s Murphy, our oversized four-legged family member, who learned how to communicate when he wanted water and somehow convinced himself that a nearly 80-pound dog belonged on my lap. My lower back has filed a formal complaint. And somewhere along the way, I started taking better care of myself. In the summer, I started walking more. By the fall, I had joined a gym, started losing weight, and discovered that exercise could be something I genuinely enjoyed. I wasn’t trying to become a different person. I was trying to become a healthier version of the person I already was.
There were difficult days, too. Illness, back pain, exhaustion, moments of self-doubt, and the ordinary responsibilities of raising five children while trying to build a career in entertainment.
Some days, success looked like performing in front of hundreds of people. Other days, success was simply getting the kids to school while feeling absolutely miserable. Both counted.
So, what did this year teach me?
It taught me that seeing more doesn’t necessarily make life easier. It taught me that sometimes stepping away from the internet is just as important as showing up on it. It taught me that nine years of hard work can suddenly open doors you didn’t even realize were there. And most importantly, it reminded me that none of this would mean nearly as much without the people who shared the journey. My wife. My children. My friends. The comedians who trusted me with their performances. The strangers who donated toward my glasses. And the people who continued supporting Blind Guy Comedy, even when I wasn’t entirely sure where I was going next.
In October 2025, I was asking the world to help me see my family’s faces. In October 2026, I’m touring, producing comedy shows, building a business, taking care of my health, and learning how to navigate a world that suddenly looks very different. I’m still blind. I’m still making questionable decisions. I’m still the same guy who thinks almost anything can become a comedy routine.
But I’m also a little wiser, a little healthier, and a lot more grateful.
The year that was J.R. Bjornson wasn’t about becoming somebody new. It was about discovering just how much more I could become while staying exactly who I am. And if this is what one year can bring, I can’t wait to see what happens next. Well, figuratively speaking.
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