Th story of my scar.

I am not ashamed of my scars. I refuse to be. Most are discreet, but sometimes they get noticed. In the early years, when there were fresh ones in various states of healing, I would scoff when someone asked, “What happened?” My responses varied from the barely believable “I was attacked by a cat” to “It’s a long story.” It frustrated me how many people seemed oblivious to the epidemic of self-harm. Are that many people truly ignorant or is it just more comfortable to accept what is an obvious lie and move on?

There’s a lyric that goes: “My scars remind me/ that the past is real.” My scars tell a story. Each one represents a journey, an emotion, a torment attached. Each one is a piece of my life, a piece of me. Some people think of scars as memories they want erased, events they wish hadn’t occurred. Seeing them brings back memories too painful to live with. But seeing mine doesn’t cause me distress. I don’t stare in agony, berating myself for how I have permanently marred my skin. My scars don’t renew the pain I struggled with back then. They exist purely as fact, written on my skin. They are what they are and nothing more. I remain unapologetic.

I am never ashamed of the scars that remain; they are part of my identity. This journey I have been on has shaped every bit of who I am. That journey included the pain and suffering that led to each one of the scars. I will not live in the past, but I will never forget where I have been. I am fiercely proud to be alive today. Don’t look at my scars with pity. Be proud I am standing in front of you today.

Lastly I'll still say you shouldn't be scared about your scar 🥺.