Trying On Truth: How Picking Out Glasses Taught Me About Discernment
I help people pick out glasses for a living. It might sound simple—just a matter of taste and face shape—but after doing it for years, I’ve learned it’s something deeper. There’s a quiet exchange that happens when someone’s trying on pair after pair, looking for the one that “feels right.” And it’s not unlike the process of figuring out what’s true in life.
When someone walks into the optical shop, they might expect to be handed the perfect frame on the first try (I’ll admit, sometimes I do!) but most of the time, it’s a process of compare and contrast. A frame looks good—until you try another one that fits better, or feels more like “you.” Sometimes people need a little encouragement. Sometimes they want the decision made for them. But in the end, the best choices are the ones they make for themselves, with a process of alignment, and after they’ve seen enough to know what works.
Truth works the same way.
We don’t always recognize it on the first try. We have to try things on—ideas, perspectives, opinions. We see what feels too tight, too harsh, too off-color. And like glasses, it’s often easier to spot what doesn’t work before we land on something that does.
In my job, people start to trust me when I offer real, specific reasons why something does or doesn’t suit them. “This one’s too wide at the temples,” or “That bridge dips a little low on your nose.” They hear the honesty and start to see it too. That shared clarity builds trust. But even then, I always make sure the final choice is theirs. Because I’m not the one wearing the glasses.
I think discernment—our ability to sense what’s real, what’s true—is built the same way. Not by being told, but by seeing clearly for ourselves, with a little help. We don’t always get it right the first time. But if we’re honest, curious, and willing to pause in front of the metaphorical mirror, we get closer.
Clarity doesn’t mean having all the answers. Sometimes it just means knowing when something doesn’t fit—and trusting that it’s okay to keep looking.
But the journey to that kind of clarity can be hard, especially when trust is involved. I’ve seen people come in who don’t want any help at all. They’ve built their own little system—tight, closed off—and they’d rather work alone than risk aligning with someone else. It’s not always pride. Often, it’s fear. They’ve been let down before. They’ve learned not to trust the exchange, even when someone is trying to help.
And then there are others on the opposite side—people who want so badly to please or get it "right" that they look only to me for the answer. They’ll nod and agree with whatever I suggest, even if the frame’s too wide or sliding down their nose. They remove themselves from the process entirely, as if the choice doesn’t belong to them.
But the best clarity—the most durable kind—comes when a person is able to hold both perspectives at once. To listen and receive input, and to trust their own sense of fit. It’s a slow, thoughtful alignment. Like tuning an instrument or learning to ride a bike—wobbly at first, but smoother over time.
If someone picks a frame that doesn’t fit—too big, too heavy, constantly slipping—it doesn’t matter how good it looks in the mirror. Eventually, it becomes a burden to wear. The same goes for truth. If an idea doesn’t fit the structure of your life—if it’s constantly falling off—you won’t hold onto it for long, no matter how polished or popular it is.
Discernment, then, isn’t just a search for truth—it’s a search for alignment between the truth, the self, and the world around you. And like glasses, it should help you see better, not weigh you down.
Finding truth isn’t about getting it right on the first try. It’s about trying on enough to know what doesn’t work—and being honest about the fit. It’s about resisting the urge to retreat into yourself or hand over your discernment to someone else. Real clarity lives in that middle space, where self and others meet in dialogue, not domination.
Just like glasses, truth is something you wear. It shapes how you see the world, how you relate to others, and how you see yourself in return. The best truths don’t distort or distract. They sit lightly, quietly—offering vision, not weight.
And when you find one that fits, really fits, you don’t need convincing. You feel it. You see more clearly. And you carry it forward—not because someone told you to, but because it became your own.
If I’m honest, my own relationship with truth and perspective started long before I ever stepped into an optical shop.
When I was very young, I heard stories of my grandmother. My dad’s mom, who passed away in her sleep when he was 16, had been a healer. I heard stories that she would just place hands on someone, and they would be cured of asthma, or fever, or whatever people would come to her for. I had even heard the Catholic Church had called her to someone’s bedside. I always had mixed feelings about the stories—if they were true or not. I wanted to believe they were true, and no one would lie about that, that we were a part of something greater, and my family was a part of something great. But the science I deeply respect in me begged to differ, and the skepticism I felt was enough for me to step back and not embrace it as part of my identity. So, I kept myself suspended from the truth or from seeing any one side as truth.
But I had a moment of clarity when I read Carl Jung, and he said that it doesn’t matter if a myth is true—it is true that a myth exists, and a fact that myth has effect. It changed my world, my perspective. Suddenly, I had a way to embrace my own myth, my own story. That myth does affect me. It is aligned, and it fits, and is part of what shaped me. So now I share my perspective with you.
