Part 3 of the 20-part Between Mind and Body series

They were thick-rimmed, dark, rectangular frames that seemed to declare themselves before I even spoke a word. The kind that didn’t whisper correction. They announced arrival. They caught the light. They outlined my young, innocent face in bold lines. They framed my eyes in a way that said, Look here.

The only redeeming part was they looked like Clark Kent’s glasses, Superman’s alter ego. If I had to wear them, at least they belonged to someone who carried a secret strength.

At the time, I wanted nothing more than to blend into the middle row, to be neither the tallest nor the shortest, neither the smartest nor the most awkward. These glasses refused invisibility.

They sat on my face like a big exclamation mark.

Before the glasses, I could quietly squint and no one noticed. After, I had to choose between seeing clearly and staying unnoticed. The struggle was private at first. Once I put them on, my difference was visible. Immediate. Public.

The frames were slightly oversized for my face, which made them feel even louder. They didn’t quite fit this quiet little fifth grader trying to avoid attention. They fit someone who looked like they had something to say.

In a classroom full of kids trying to belong, these glasses did the opposite.

I wasn’t sure I was ready for that.

When I first got my glasses, I thought the story was about vision.

It wasn’t.

At the time, it felt embarrassing. I didn’t like how they changed my face. I thought they made me look different in a way I hadn’t chosen. I didn’t want to wear them. In fact, I would take them off as soon as I walked out the front door on my way to school. My sister put a stop to that after telling my parents. I remember feeling exposed for trying to hide, and at the same time, strangely relieved. Someone else had made the decision for me. I didn’t have to keep pretending anymore.

Years later, I realized the glasses weren’t just helping me see the world more clearly. They were teaching me something about adjustment.

At first, everything looked distorted. When I turned my head too quickly, the edges warped. Stairs felt slightly off. My brain had to recalibrate. What I had known as normal no longer matched what I was seeing.

Perspective requires recalibration.

We don’t just change lenses and instantly understand life better. We feel disoriented first. A new perspective often feels wrong before it feels right.

The body reflects this. When our understanding shifts, when we realize we may have misjudged a situation, a person, or ourselves. There is often a physical sensation. A drop in the stomach. A loosening in the chest. Sometimes resistance. Sometimes relief.

Perspective isn’t the first impression. It’s what remains after time has passed. It’s the meaning that evolves when we look again.

As a child, I thought wearing glasses meant something about me.

As an adult, I see it differently.

That is perspective.

In my work, I sometimes meet guests who are in the middle of something, grief, change, uncertainty. In the moment, their experience feels absolute. The body holds it tightly. Shoulders rise. Breath shortens. Muscles brace.

But perspective is rarely available in the middle of the storm.

It comes later.

And when it comes, the body often softens with it.

The event may not have changed.

But the meaning did.

The world didn’t change when I put on glasses.

I did.

Perspective works like that. Sometimes it isn’t about seeing something new, but becoming someone who can.