Strange message came in one morning. As it turned out, it was strange because it was from unknown person. Usually, such things result in “block user”, but not this time. This time, it developed into conversation over a few days. As this stranger said, there are no accidents. It was meant to be. I’m thankful. He, among other things, gave me inspiration to write about scars.
I have many scars, yes. I might not be more beautiful because of them. (I might not be beautiful without them either, so it doesn’t really make a difference.) But they are a part of me. An important part.
Some scars remind us we are still alive. The scars that are left when we survived, when we could not, if… but we did. We might be left with a sign on our skin, our body, yes, yet we could no longer be at all. So we are scarred.
Some scars remind us that we can all make mistakes, or be a bit clumsy. But we have them because we work, we are active, we do something… we live, not just exist.
Some scars bear memories of adventures. Of things that we tell our friends even long after they are gone, things that have place in our heart after many days and years.
All scars are part of us. As are things that caused them. They didn’t just change our body. They made us who we are now. They are marks of our path, our experience. Signs of our strengths.
It is really sad that our culture teaches us that scars are ugly. We hide them, cover them, when we should be proud of them. No to brag about them. Not to feel something special. But to appreciate, respect what they represent. The story behind them. Our own (hi)story.
The same as wrinkles the scars tell us how rich our life has been so far. They show the depths of our living.
And at the same time… they tell us most of scars are not visible. They are hidden, covered. They teach us never to judge someone, because you never know the scars they carry – as others don’t know yours.
Alenka H., 2021