A child approached me and said, “Please Tie my laces.”
At first, I glanced at the child, then my eyes darted around, uncertain and hesitant.
The child’s voice came again, softer this time, pleading, “Please tie my laces.”
I turned to face the child, who was staring at me with bright, hopeful eyes, full of trust.
I hesitated, then admitted, “I don’t know how to tie laces.”
The child burst into laughter, saying, “Uncle, you shouldn’t lie!”
“I’m not lying,” I replied, feeling a little embarrassed.
“Look, I’m wearing shoes without laces,” I added, pointing to my own footwear.
The child glanced at my shoes, then, with a playful grin, encouraged me, “Come on, just give it a try.”
Reluctantly, I knelt down, gently placed the child’s feet on my knee, and began to fumble with the laces, my fingers clumsy and unsure.
The child walked away, but only a short distance before his laces came undone again.
He turned back, looked at me, and started laughing.
But then, his laughter softened into a smile as he said, “You were honest,” before chuckling and walking away, leaving me with a strange sense of warmth.
The truth is, I’ve never been good at tying laces.
Every time I try, they come undone. I retie them, take a few steps, and they loosen again.
People notice, and they laugh, their eyes following me as they point out, “Your laces are loose—tie them properly, or you’ll trip and fall.”
It’s why I stopped wearing shoes with laces long ago—to avoid the embarrassment, to avoid being laughed at.
But that day, something shifted.
The child’s smile triumphed over all the mocking laughter.
It wasn’t just a smile—it was a quiet victory, a moment of pure, unfiltered honesty that outshone every jest and every teasing remark. While others had laughed at my clumsiness, at my inability to tie laces properly, the child’s smile carried no judgment, no ridicule. Instead, it was filled with understanding and a simple appreciation for my honesty.
That smile reminded me that there’s something far more powerful than the laughter that comes at someone’s expense. It’s the kindness that sees imperfections, the warmth that accepts people as they are, and the grace that finds beauty in vulnerability.
The child’s smile didn’t just triumph—it healed, it inspired, and it taught me that sometimes, the most profound moments come not from perfection, but from the courage to be unapologetically yourself.
That evening, I bought a new pair of shoes with laces.
I had learned not to force myself to try what I knew I couldn’t do—I already understood that.
But more importantly, I realized that the things we see as our shortcomings, our flaws, are part of who we are.
We should embrace them openly, without shame, as part of our whole selves.
While our strengths and qualities may earn us respect, it’s our honesty about our imperfections that makes us genuine, that makes us real.
And in that honesty, there is a kind of beauty—a beauty that comes from being true to yourself.
That day, I learned that it’s okay to be imperfect.
It’s okay to stumble, to fumble, to not have all the answers.
Because in the end, it’s not about being perfect—it’s about being honest, being authentic, and finding beauty in the messiness of life.
And in that moment, I realized: you look beautiful.
