Beyond 20/20

My world has always danced on the edge of a soft watercolor blur. That's just how my eyes see things, the edges fuzzed, the details swirling in a gentle, impressionistic haze. It's never been a problem – well, except for that one time in third grade when I mistook a squirrel for a very fluffy cat and tried to chase it down the playground.

Let's be honest, it wasn't the most graceful moment of my life. But my nearsightedness has had its perks, too.

Without my glasses or contacts, the faces around me become soft and gentle paintings. The harsh lines that reveal imperfections fade away, replaced by a luminous glow. It's like everyone I see is bathed in a sprinkle of fairy dust, their features softened as if by a celestial filter.

Sure, I might miss a pimple here and there, or misinterpret a scowl, but I've learned kindness lies in a blurred perspective.

The sharp edges of the world dissolve too. Traffic lights aren't piercing red, yellow, and green dots, but halos of diffused color. Fireworks aren't just a burst of sparks, but shimmering explosions of light that linger in the air.

And when it rains, the streetlights paint the slick pavement with streaks of vibrant color, a watercolor brought to life.

Even angry stares lose their sting in my blurry gaze. When words become harsh and eyes flash with frustration, it softens through the filter of my nearsightedness. Sure, I know on some level there is ire, but the visual sting disappears. It builds resilience – a reminder that even the strongest emotions can't pierce the veil of my gentle vision.

If your boss is giving you a hard time, or someone's criticism of your work feels a little too sharp, there's always my secret weapon: take off the glasses. Let the world soften, let the harsh edges disappear. It won't make their words any nicer, but it just might make them a little easier to take.

The only thing better than seeing the world through a gentle lens is being able to take that lens off when you need a little extra resilience.

Yet, there's something delicious about having a choice. My glasses sit on my nightstand – beacons of clarity when I need them. Slipping them on is like wiping a dirty lens, suddenly revealing all the sharp details the world has been hiding. Faces transform – pores, wrinkles, and the tiny flickers of emotion all suddenly visible with startling sharpness.

It's a useful tool, this clear sight. I put it on when I need to really see someone's expression, to read the fine print, or navigate an unfamiliar place. But even then, I appreciate my nearsightedness more. It's like having a secret world, a gentle softness that's all mine.

I've also read about the "eye exercise" method to help improve eyesight every day. I've even tried it faithfully for a while, but unfortunately, it hasn't seemed to make a difference for me. Still, my nearsightedness doesn't define me, it's simply a part of who I am, and I've learned to appreciate the unique perspective it offers.

As I get older, my nearsightedness gets a little stronger. Sometimes I think about laser surgery, about waking up to a world that's always in high definition. Then a wave of affection washes over me, not for those perfect eyes I could have, but for the gentle, resilient ones I do. Why fix what isn't broken?

My nearsightedness helps me see the world with the beauty of blurred lines and the strength of resilience. That's the view I'll take, day after day.