Scar Story

Yesterday's Road Trip Wednesday over at YA Highway asked the question: What is the story of your best scar? And I know I'm a day late, but I couldn't help tackling this topic.


My scar is a pale and faded line, from almost-collar-bone to almost-belly-button. I see it when I change and when I shower and when I look in the mirror. I could cover it up all the way if I wanted to, but wearing necklines that high just because of a scar seems ridiculous. It is healed skin, flesh cut open and sewed back together. Scar. Zipper. Live saver.

It is always, always reminding me of what I am and who I am and what has happened. Underneath the scar, my heart beats. It beats steady, reliably, stronger than expected but weaker than hoped. The story of my scar is not funny or outrageous or extreme because I did something dangerous and got cut or bruised or burned. I did not crash a bike, touch a hot iron, or crack my head on concrete trying to dive. I am so much more boring than that.

I used to hate this scar. It's the only one that isn't completely covered by shirts and I was thirteen and fourteen and fifteen and horribly awkward and I wanted to be just the same, just like everyone else. I didn't want people looking at me because I didn't know how to explain without sounding moronic or brave, of which I am neither. Plus, it hurt. Not the scar itself, but all it reminded me of. There's that trying-to-hard quality to my voice when I say I had heart surgery when I was younger. I try on this oh so casual tone, like it's no big deal. Like oh, that doesn't matter. No biggie.

This scar is not my sole defining quality, but it is also not a small thing. It is there. It is a piece of me. It is a reminder of needles and tubes and medicine and hospital beds and breathing and not breathing and fear fear fear, pray pray pray. It is brokenness and healing and growing, being patched up and on my way. It is faith and luck and being scared and being saved. It is my own story, my own history.