Cleaning the Lenses

 

Cleaning the Lenses

For a while, I put my writing away. I unpublished every post, shut the door, and told myself I was done. The weight of disappointment and old ghosts pressed too hard, and my words felt heavy instead of free.

But the truth is, I can’t stay away from the page. Writing is how I breathe.

Life on the road has taught me that journeys aren’t only measured in kilometers. Sometimes the hardest miles are walked inside your own chest. And lately, I’ve been walking those miles with a pair of lenses I didn’t even know were dirty.

Years of hurt had fogged them. Every word I heard, every gesture, I filtered through old pain. I thought I was being wise, cautious, protecting myself. But in reality, I was misreading kindness as control, humor as hurt, difference as danger. I was defending myself against shadows.

And then came a companion. Not a savior, not a perfect man, just a soul who laughs easily, jokes strangely, and—without even meaning to—shows me that my glasses are smeared with yesterday’s tears. He reminds me to wipe them clean. To see what is here, now.

It isn’t about promises or fairy tales. We take it day by day, laugh a lot, share campfires and cups of coffee. And in between, I’m learning to live with clearer sight.

I once thought my place was back in the busyness of long workdays and endless responsibility. But no—my place is here. On the road. Writing. Learning. Loving in the quiet ways that feel real.

So here I am again. Nomadic Grandmother still fits, because I am still her: wandering, wondering, stumbling, and starting over. This is not a story of endings, but of lenses wiped clean.