The Day the Light Came Back

Have you ever had surgery? What for?

Yes. I’ve had surgery, and it changes my life. For as long as I can remember, a quiet shadow had lived just above my left eye—an uninvited guest nestled in the socket, swelling little by little each year. My parents, with the best of intentions and a cabinet full of homeopathic vials, tried to chase it away with sugar pellets and herbal drops. But the shadow stayed.

By the time I reached my late teens, it had grown bolder. It blurred my vision like fog creeping over a windshield and throbbed with dull aches that made books, screens, and even sunlight unbearable. Concentration vanished after fifteen minutes, like a candle snuffed out.

In 2014, I made a decision that terrified me: surgery.

The hospital smelled like antiseptic and anxiety. I remember the cold kiss of the IV, the blur of nurses’ voices, and then—nothing. When I woke up, my world was wrapped in gauze. My left eye was sealed under layers of white, as if my body had closed a curtain on half my world.

For a week, I waited. Every night I imagined the worst: Would the darkness behind the bandages be permanent? Had the light gone out for good?

The day of unveiling arrived. The doctor’s hands were gentle, but my heart pounded like a drum. As the final strip came away, I opened my eye… and saw nothing. Just a vast, terrifying black.

My breath caught. The silence in the room stretched taut.

And then—like dawn cracking through a storm—the darkness began to dissolve. Light spilled in slowly, shapes sharpened, and color returned to my left eye. I gasped. The doctor grinned. A nurse clapped. I wasn’t sure if I was crying or laughing—maybe both.

In that moment, surrounded by beeping monitors and beaming faces, I felt the world offer me a second sight—not just through my eye, but through life itself.

I’ve never taken light for granted again.