They sit on my nose every morning—light, familiar, sometimes forgotten until they fog up in the rain or slip down during a laugh. My glasses aren’t just tools; they’re silent witnesses to my life.

I got my first pair at age 10. Back then, I hated them. They felt like a label: “the kid who can’t see the board.” But over time, they became part of me—like a second skin. Through them, I read my first novel, saw my best friend’s wedding, watched my niece take her first steps, and stared at countless sunsets I’d have otherwise missed.

Glasses don’t judge. They don’t interrupt. They simply help you see—clearly, honestly, sometimes painfully. And in a world full of filters and curated feeds, that kind of clarity feels rare… and precious.

I’ve lost pairs on trains, stepped on frames in the dark, cried so hard the lenses blurred. Yet each time I get a new prescription or choose a new frame, it feels like renewing a promise: to keep looking, keep learning, keep showing up.

Maybe that’s why I never mind wearing them. They’re not hiding anything. If anything, they help me see—and be seen—more truly.