The first twenty minutes of my open house were still. Too still.

I stood outside, talking with the woman painting my windows, trying not to let the weight of an empty room sink too far into my chest.

It’s funny how time stretches when you are waiting to be seen.

And then—finally—the first visitor arrived.

My neighbor from next door, the woman who runs the yoga studio and laundromat, walked in with kindness spilling out of her like sunlight.

We talked about yoga, about showing up for each other, and I made a mental note to join one of her morning sessions.

Her presence felt like the first ripple breaking the surface of a very still pond.

And then, as if a door swung open, people began coming in all at once.

The room filled with the hum of community—parents, kids, tiny feet, voices.

It was chaotic in the way that only a group of children can be, especially the littlest ones under three.

They were like whirlwinds, scattering themselves across the room.

But among the swirl of movement, there was one girl who caught my attention.

She was older—maybe eight or ten—and there was a quiet steadiness about her.

She listened.

She let me guide her on the bar, eager to learn, soaking in every correction, her eyes following me with trust.

I could feel it—she will move quickly through these skills, but it wasn’t her talent that left the imprint on me.

It was a single, unguarded moment.

She looked at me, eyes wide, and asked,

“Do you have a lazy eye?”

I smiled, “Yes, I do.”

Her face lit up.

“I have one too,” she said, “in my left eye. And it’s blind.”

“My left eye is my lazy eye too,” I told her.

And then she looked at me with the kind of wonder that only a child can carry and whispered,

“That is so cool.”

Cool.

Something that had once been my insecurity—something I used to hide—was now something she saw as cool.

We shared that moment, a connection through difference.

She didn’t pause to pity, to question, or to diminish.

She simply saw me, saw herself, and in that reflection, found a thread that tied us together.

My heart warmed in a way that words barely touch.

I don’t have favorites. But she left a mark on me.

In her eyes, I saw myself at eight years old—wanting to fit in, wanting to be seen, wanting someone to tell me that I could be different and still belong.

It took me twenty-seven years to make peace with my lazy eye.

To stop seeing it as a flaw and instead as part of the mosaic that makes me, me.

For so long I tried to hide it, to will it invisible.

But somewhere along the way I realized that every part of me, even the parts that set me apart, deserve love.

And now, this little girl reminded me why that matters.

I hope that in that small exchange, she felt that too.

I hope she knows that she is cool, not because she looks like everyone else, but because she doesn’t.

As I watched her swinging on the bar, I realized that she noticed my eye because she knows eyes the way I do.

People who carry something different become sensitive to that difference in others.

She saw me in a way that not everyone does, and I saw her in return.

I left that open house thinking about how vision is a gift—how much of life we take in with our eyes—and how I want to keep that gift strong for as long as I can.

When I go to my next appointment, I’ll ask if there’s anything I can do to strengthen my lazy eye—not to change it, but to preserve the blessing of sight.

To hold on to the ability to see the world, in all its beauty, for as long as I am given.

And yet, today, I was grateful for that very thing I once wished away.

Because it gave me this moment.

Not long ago, just a month back, I was ready to leave this town.

I was already planning my exit.

I wanted to leave as quickly as possible, convinced there was nothing here for me.

But today, as I stood in that gym—my gym—with laughter echoing through its walls,

I realized: I can’t leave yet.

This may not be my forever, but it is my now.

Something here still needs me.

Or maybe, I need something here.

Maybe it’s a girl with a lazy eye, who needs to know that different can be powerful.

I think of courage, and how it doesn’t exist without fear.

Of bravery, which is not the absence of fear, but the decision to stand in it.

And of peace—the kind that comes only when you finally trust that everything is exactly as it’s meant to be.

Reflection

To have courage means you’ve known fear.

To be brave is not to erase fear, but to move forward with it.

To find peace is to stand in that fear, and still trust that everything is unfolding exactly as it’s meant to.

I’m learning to stay.

To stay in the fear, in the faith, in the unfolding.

And tonight, I am grateful I did.

⸻

Your Turn

Think of something that once made you feel different, something you wished away.

What if that part of you isn’t a weakness, but a bridge?

Who might be waiting to see themselves in you?

⸻

Quote to Carry

“Courage doesn’t always roar.

Sometimes courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day saying,

I will try again tomorrow.”

– Mary Anne Radmacher

I’m learning to stay.

To stay in the fear, in the faith, in the unfolding.

And today, I’m grateful I did.

Always,

Casandra