I have a lazy eye. There it is ― my not-so-secret insecurity. Most people say they barely notice it, and I wish I could say the same. But to me, it’s always there, quietly present like a shadow in every reflection, every photograph, every tired glance in the mirror.

Somewhere along the line, I started seeing photos I’m in not as memories but as moments of self-negotiation. I analyze my gaze, fixate on the right eye drifting inward, and tell myself (sometimes convincingly) that it’s fine. That it doesn’t define me. That it’s just a small thing.

But when I’m exhausted or a few drinks deep, it shows up in full force, a visible reminder that I’m not always in control of how I’m seen. I wear glasses daily, not out of necessity ― my prescription is barely there ― but because they offer a filter. A shield. A small, stylish buffer between my wandering eye and the world.

The worst part? I feel it. Not just emotionally, but physically. There’s a subtle yet persistent tugging deep behind my right eye. It’s like my body whispering a reminder that something isn’t quite aligned. It’s an invisible weight I carry, a quiet tension that flares up when I’m tired, stressed, or staring at my computer screen too long (I’m a writer, so this is an everyday occurrence). That tug is the signal, my giveaway. It tells me that my eye has drifted again. That the mask has slipped. That I look, in the cruel words of more than one person throughout my childhood, “ridiculous.”

I was born with crossed eyes (strabismus and amblyopia, if you want the technical terms) caused by extra muscle tissue at the inner corners of my eyes, constantly pulling in, in, in. Even after four surgeries (two as a baby, two more at 18) meant to correct my eyes and minimize the pulling, that sensation never stopped, even temporarily. There’s something uniquely brutal about fighting your own face. I’ve done everything I can to manage it, correct it, hide it. But it stubbornly persisted.

That is, until Botox.

When I first walked into that appointment with MerzAesthetics, it was purely cosmetic. A little lip flip here, a subtle tweak there. Nothing groundbreaking. I wasn’t expecting anything more than a slightly perkier pout and a temporary boost in self-esteem. But then came the surprise. My injector casually suggested a few units near my laugh lines. Sure, I thought. Why not? Two weeks later, once everything had settled, I realized something had shifted. That familiar tug, the one I’ve felt my entire life, had almost entirely vanished.

It was subtle, almost imperceptible. But for the first time in forever, I didn’t feel my eye pulling inward. The constant, quiet strain was gone. I didn’t see it coming ― and honestly, I didn’t know how much I needed that relief until I had it.

Curious about this very powerful shift in perception, I had to investigate. As it turns out, small doses of Botulinum toxin (commonly known as Botox) have been “used to treat patients with strabismus since the 1970s and is an extremely safe and effective way of changing the position of the eyes,” according to an American Academy of Ophthalmology report by Dr. John Ferris. Apparently, the medicine works by targeting the muscles that cause the eyes to misalign and relaxing them a bit.

Regarding this genius use of Botox that I hadn’t been privy to, I spoke with Natia Rufolo, New Jersey-based aesthetic injector and founder of Injx By Nat Aesthetics. “Conditions where one might feel a pulling or tugging sensation in their eyes are often caused by overactive muscles,” she tells me, fleshing out some of what I’d read in medical reports. “Certain muscles around the eye become overly tight, contracted, or spastic, causing that pulling or tugging feeling.”

Botox, Rufolo explains, can block the release of acetylcholine, the neurotransmitter that “tells” muscles to contract. For me, apparently, it “weakened the overactive muscle just enough to let the opposing one rebalance the eye’s position.”

By silencing the muscles that had tugged at me for years, Botox gave me something deeper than cosmetic change. It gave me ease. A stillness I’d never known in my own skin. For so long, I’d moved through the world hyper-aware of every glance, every photo, every flicker of my eye. But now, that tension, both physical and emotional, was released.

This wasn’t just about looking different. It was about feeling different. Lighter. Freer. More grounded in a version of myself I hadn’t realized I was waiting for. As if, by accident, I’d stumbled into a new kind of peace with my reflection. For the first time, I could walk into a room or hold someone’s gaze without bracing for that quiet voice in the back of my mind. The tug was gone. And with it, so was the inner monologue that told me I was different.

As Rufolo puts it, “treatments like Botox are part of a larger self-acceptance journey.” It’s not about erasing flaws, but about aligning how you look with how you feel. And though my discovery came unexpectedly, it revealed something everlasting: “When approached with intention, Botox can be a powerful tool for self-care and self-expression ― not a rejection of natural beauty, but a way to feel more in harmony with it.” It was a tool to feel more in control of how others perceived me.

So yes, I’ll happily shout from the rooftops how much I love my injections. Not because I’m chasing perfection, or trying to erase the parts of me that make me real. But because, somehow, in the process of smoothing lines and softening features, I found something I never set out to find ― a quiet, gentle form of self-love.

I didn’t go into that appointment looking for transformation. I certainly wasn’t expecting healing. But that’s the thing about self-acceptance; it doesn’t always come with fanfare. Sometimes it sneaks in, in the form of a tiny needle and a few softened muscles, and leaves behind something far more meaningful than a refined profile. Sometimes it’s as simple as finding peace.

There’s something beautiful about finding your way back to yourself in a place you never thought to look. And when something helps you feel that kind of comfort in your own skin, when it quiets the voice of doubt and makes room for a little grace, what’s there to hide?