On Wednesday, my niece, the eldest of four, came home buzzing with news. She had been given a creative writing assignment. Her teacher had asked each student to write a story, and she wanted my help. I told her I would gladly step in, but only after she gave it an honest try on her own. I wanted her to meet the page first, without interference or fear.
That night, she sat with her notebook and did a freewrite. wrote. By Thursday, she carried the rough draft to school. Later that day, she returned home crestfallen. Water from her bottle had spilled over her book. The ink had blurred, the pages looked really messy, and the words she had labored over now seemed to be slipping away.
She brought it to me and asked if she could recopy the story into a clean notebook. The problem, she said, was that she couldn’t really see what she had written anymore. So I took the book from her and leaned in but I could read it clearly enough. I told her the writing was still there, pretty much visible. She squinted and tried again, still, nothing. That was when it made sense that it was no longer about spilled water or smudged ink but about her eyes. It dawned on me that my niece is longsighted.
The realization pressed heavily on my chest, and I felt sorry for her, truly. But alongside that sadness came an unexpected gratitude. I can see. I have always been able to see. Letters don’t blur for me, even in dim light. Pages don’t disappear unless I close the book myself.
I told her mother immediately, and I was relieved that she took it seriously as she’s booked her an appointment with an optician. It’s strange how these things can go unnoticed, even by those closest to us. Children adapt, they don’t always complain, they probably assume everyone sees the world the way they do.
Later that evening, I found myself thinking less about eyesight and more about awareness. About how often we move through life assuming wellness is the default, not a gift. How easily we overlook ordinary miracles: clear vision, steady breath and a body that responds when asked.
This wasn’t a moment of comparison or superiority. It was a moment of acknowledgment. It felt like someone patting me on the back and reminding me that being alive and well is not something to rush past. It is something to pause with, hold gently and to be thankful for, not boastfully but sincerely.