why did my baby refuse to look at me?

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From the moment my son turned 8 months old, something felt fundamentally wrong between us. He would crawl around the house perfectly fine, exploring every corner with fearless curiosity. But whenever I tried to make eye contact, he'd immediately turn his head away with deliberate intention. Not just a casual glance away - he'd physically recoil like I was scaring him, his little body tensing up as if bracing against some invisible threat.
The pediatrician brushed off my concerns with dismissive confidence. "Some babies are just shy," she said, barely looking up from her clipboard. "He'll grow out of it." But my maternal instincts told me otherwise. This wasn't shyness. This was something else entirely, something that made my chest tighten with worry every time I watched my son actively avoid my gaze.
My husband thought I was overreacting. "He looks at me just fine," he'd say with a shrug. "You're reading too much into it." But I noticed something strange - our son only looked at his father in dim lighting or shadows, like during evening bath time or when they played in the basement.
I started documenting patterns like a detective. During playtime, my son would happily interact with toys, stacking blocks and shaking rattles. But the moment I leaned in under our bright living room lights, positioning my face where he could see me clearly, he'd turn away with what looked like physical discomfort. His little face would scrunch up, and he'd bury his head against the carpet.
The behavior became so consistent that I started to dread our daytime interactions. I found myself dimming lights throughout the house without understanding why. Other mothers at the playground would watch their babies make eye contact and smile, and I'd feel jealousy mixed with deep concern. What was wrong with my child?
One evening, I was feeding him in the kitchen under harsh fluorescent lights. As I lifted the spoon toward his mouth, I accidentally knocked over a glass of water. As I bent down to clean up, blocking the overhead light and casting a shadow over us, something miraculous happened. My son suddenly looked directly at me and smiled - the biggest, most genuine smile I'd ever seen from him. His eyes locked onto mine with breathtaking intensity.
That moment hit me like a truck. The pieces clicked into place with startling clarity. I rushed to turn off all the lights except a small dim lamp in the corner, my hands shaking with excitement and mounting dread.
The transformation was immediate and heartbreaking. My son began making eye contact, reaching for my face, babbling happily in the way I'd always longed to experience. He wasn't ignoring me - he was being blinded by lights reflecting off something, suffering in silence while I unknowingly caused him pain.
I scheduled an emergency appointment with a pediatric ophthalmologist. The diagnosis confirmed my worst fears and greatest relief: photophobia caused by severe light sensitivity. My baby's developing eyes were so sensitive that normal indoor lighting caused physical pain. He'd learned to avoid eye contact as protection.
The doctor explained that bright lights were like staring into the sun for him, causing immediate discomfort. He'd been suffering for months, and I had unknowingly been the source because I was always trying to interact in well-lit rooms.
We got him special tinted glasses for babies with photophobia. The first time I put them on him under normal lights, he looked up at me with incredible wonder and relief, as if seeing me clearly for the very first time.
"Mama," he whispered - his very first word, spoken while looking directly into my eyes. And I broke down crying, overwhelmed by months of pent-up emotion and the joy of finally connecting with my son.