What a telescope taught me about perspective
When I was nine, I was going to be an astronomer. My parents were disappointed. I became a writer instead.
Back then, I was obsessed with space. Today we'd call those "special interests" and a sign of neurodivergence. In 1985, it was just my personality.
That Christmas, my parents gave me a small red telescope. It was glorious. Because a few weeks later, Halley's Comet was coming back to Earth.
Every night, I'd pop the screen off my window and practice. I had no idea I was learning something far bigger than astronomy.
I was learning metacognition—decades before I knew the word.
On clear winter nights, when the moon wasn't blinding me, I'd find stars and planets. I remember the first time I saw Saturn. I pointed my little telescope at a bright star near the horizon and saw it—rings and all.
Stunning.
Without the telescope, Saturn was just another bright dot. With it, Saturn became a planet.
That's when I understood: size, distance, and brightness all lie.
The moon looks biggest and brightest. It's neither. It's just closer. It has no light of its own—it just bounces the sun's.
Every tiny, dim star is millions—maybe billions—of times brighter than the moon. They only look smaller because they're so far away.
I was nine when I learned my first judgments were wrong.
Like all humans, I'm easily fooled by perspective.
Fast forward thirty years. I'm thirty-nine, three years into copywriting, and it's past midnight. Sleep is impossible. I need more money. I need to level up. I have no idea how.
My problems feel too big to handle.
I already failed at one career—I quit law to write. I can't survive another spectacular failure.
I look out the window. The moon is rising over the trees. Almost full.
I remember those childhood nights. The craters. The seas. The magic.
Through a telescope, the moon fills the entire sky.
I glance at the clock. Small realization: **midnight is a horrible time to solve anything.**
The next morning, I don't hit the job boards. I don't read another unhelpful blog post. I sit down with a legal pad and make lists.
Assets. Strengths. Things I've done for clients. Everything I could write about.
Pages and pages. Until I'm nearly crazy.
I still have no idea what to do.
Frustrated, I grab my keys and head to the river.
For the first mile, my brain spins.
Then it slows.
I notice ducks on the far bank. Blackberries not quite ripe. I keep walking. Keep noticing.
For the rest of the walk—and the whole drive home—I don't think about my problems.
The second I walk through my door, the weight hits me again. I plop into my chair, flip through my lists—
—and my mind starts connecting dots.
Lawyer. Lead magnet. Premium.
From different lists. In one moment, a new strategy: **I become a specialist in creating lead magnets for lawyers and law firms.**
Not innovative. But it fit me perfectly.
Why did it take so long?
I couldn't solve my problem because I was too close to it.
I needed distance. The walk gave my brain space to make connections hidden before.
Like the moon through a telescope, I was too zoomed in.
I'm nine again. I walk into my room, excited—the newspaper said Halley's Comet might be visible tonight.
My telescope is bent. Disfigured.
I point it out the window. Blackness.
My little brother used it to smash rocks on the patio.
I start to cry.
I never did see Halley's Comet.
Ten years after my last big pivot, I'm stuck again. Forty-nine. AI has changed everything.
But I've changed too. I'm not just a freelancer anymore. I'm an author. A poet-cartoonist.
I get paid to write what I want.
Then—after eighteen solid months—it stops working. Revenue down. Imposter syndrome in full grip. No idea what to do.
Months of flailing. Trying everything.
Then I remember the moon.
I need distance.
I stop writing and drawing for two weeks. Bare minimum work. No lists this time. I know better than to read bad advice.
I work incredibly hard at doing nothing.
Twelve days. Nothing. No breakthroughs. No clarity.
Then on day eleven, I wake up knowing the answer—but I can't call it to mind.
I open my notebook and write.
A new strategy. My issue is a systems issue. I had decent systems as a freelancer. As an author? Grossly inadequate.
But I already have all the components. They're just not organized.
Then I doodle. Stars. Constellations. My own—not ones you'll find in any sky.
Once again, the solution didn't come from studying the problem up close.
It came from backing away.
A change in perspective showed me my problem wasn't as daunting as I thought.
Just like the moon isn't brighter or bigger than the stars.
My problem wasn't bigger than my capabilities.
When I was nine, all I wanted was to see Halley's Comet.
I didn't get that.
But I learned something better: **perspective shapes perception and reality.** I learned how easy it is to fool my eyes and my mind.
Now I'm fifty. I still have to relearn how easy it is to fool my senses.
It's so easy to get too close to my problems.
I bought my own telescope now. Grown-up money.
I still love looking at the night sky. It reminds me that perspective changes everything. It reminds me what childlike enthusiasm feels like.
Now I only have to wait thirty-five more years for my next chance at Halley's Comet.
This time I'll be ready.
And my little brother promises not to use my telescope to hammer any rocks.