A new scar

Earlier this month, I had a bad fall.

I got stitches, a tetanus shot, a fair amount of pain and a free pass for unlimited naps.

I will also get a scar—a little souvenir to remind me of when I rushed too much when I shouldn't have. And maybe it'll help me slow down a bit.

I've been thinking about scars a lot. The stories they tell. The meaning they hold. How they mark and heal. And how they are all unique.

Some are visible, others not, but we all walk around scarred. And all those struggles, big or small, have shaped us and brought us here. They make us different. They make us weird.

My new one is on my chin. Yesterday I was told that a scar there means "you've had a good childhood". I laughed.

At 37, I'm far from being a child. But maybe my inner child is the one getting a good childhood now. And this unrelated fall has helped me be aware of the good care I'm taking of her.

I know it's easy to feel self-conscious about scars, both physical and emotional. They can draw attention and make us feel noticed for something we'd prefer to cover. They can make us stand out. They can make us feel different. But they are part of being human. And being human is having a story.

There's this song my boyfriend played for me when we started going out, and it's been in my head all week: "I wish you knew your scars are precious too. There's no need to hide. I see them like gold."

And that's acceptance.