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A third of the world's children suffer from myopia, which will reach 40% in 2050. Girls have more hand problems than boys - says study

Astigmatism is anticipated to influence half of the world's populace by 2050. A modern report says it should be countered by classifying it as a infection and upping children's open air time

By Prohura Research - PRUPublished about a year ago 3 min read

The sun hung low in the sky, casting a warm glow over the bustling city of Hanamura. Children rushed home after school, their laughter echoing in the narrow streets. Among them was twelve-year-old Yuki, her small frame adorned with a colorful backpack heavier than her. She often fell behind the pack, her nose buried in a book, lost in worlds crafted from ink and paper, though she sometimes missed the beauty of the sprawling skyline just beyond her pages.

Yuki had always struggled to see distant objects clearly. It started slowly; the words in her favorite novels would blur when she read without her glasses. She remembered a day in the park, her mother's anxious eyes watching her squint at the rainbow kite soaring high above, a flickering disappointment in her thin smile. "Let’s get your eyes checked, Yuki," her mother had suggested gently, and from that day on, thick lenses sat on the bridge of her nose like an unwelcome accessory.

As the years passed, the blur of the world outside crept closer, leaving behind a sharp clarity in all things near. The stories she read had begun to shine brightly in her mind, but the enchanting sights of distant mountains and cityscapes remained elusive. Her world grew narrower, outlined only by the things that lay within an arm’s reach.

One evening, as dusk settled in, Yuki found herself curled up in her small bedroom, surrounded by mounds of books and the blue light of her tablet flickering across her face. Her mom often reminded her to play outside, but the allure of stories was far too tempting. Yet, something gnawed at her—a feeling that as she buried her head in worlds fabricated by authors, the external world faded further away.

The following day, school class shared jingles of giggles and lessons. Their teacher, Mr. Nakamura, a passionate man with heavy glasses that magnified his warm eyes, announced an inter-school project focusing on health and well-being. It was a call to action—a chance to address the rising concern of myopia among their peers.

“Research suggests that myopia is affecting more and more children, especially post-pandemic,” he explained to the class, handing out pamphlets. “As emerging leaders, you can make a change. Our project will include physical activities, awareness programs, and encouraging outdoor time.”

Yuki sat up, her mind racing through its corridors, connecting dots that had once felt apart. Her classmates buzzed with ideas, discussing posters and videos, but Yuki wanted to do something far more powerful. That night, she drafted a proposal to create a community play day, where families would be invited to partake in outdoor games, workshops on reducing screen time, and discussions about eye health.

The following weeks were an exhilarating blur of planning, getting help from her classmates, and pouring her heart into the project. She felt a spark of something she had often missed—connection. She orchestrated delicious food stalls, outdoor games, and storytelling corners ignited by the idea of raising awareness that encompassed everyone.

Finally, the big day arrived, and the park transformed into a vibrant world filled with laughter and joy. Yuki stood at the entrance, watching parents and children alike emerge, free of screens and focusing on each other. Little tents lined the walkways, where kids learned to frolic and play while their parents attended talks on reducing screen time and increasing outdoor activities.

As the sun dipped below the horizon and the evening unfolded, Yuki captured the beauty of youth—children running, playing catch, climbing trees, their faces illuminated with joy. In that chaotic bliss, she spotted Akira, a boy from her class, struggling to shoot a basketball into the hoop. She looked closer, realizing he had squinted for the last few minutes, frustration clear on his face.

“Hey, Akira!” Yuki called, her heart racing as she ran over. “Try using both hands and stand back a bit!”

With a flicker of hope and following her guidance, he hurled the ball, the swish of the net echoing the flourish of triumph. The joy overtook him, and Yuki felt a rush of warmth; it wasn’t just about eye health anymore—it was about embracing their world together, reconnecting amidst their struggles.

As day turned to night and lanterns glowed around them, Yuki realized that she was part of something grander than herself. Together, they weren’t just combating myopia—they were nurturing connections, memories, and the aching clarity of the world beyond the haze of their lenses. In that moment, Yuki felt hopeful that the world wouldn’t just remain a blur; it would be a canvas yet to be drawn upon, a life of distance waiting to be embraced, even through a child’s small but brave lenses.

And perhaps, just perhaps, it was a journey they could embark on together.

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About the Creator

Prohura Research - PRU

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