Scars

Courtesy BoneandSpine.com

I think we can fall in love with our injuries.

When I was 9 years old, I remember having a fascination with playing hurt. Most of us go through a phase as kids where we want to wear band-aids all the time to garner sympathy and, well, I took it to a different level.

Every Saturday that winter, before the family headed over to the local arena, I would wrap an Ace bandage around my calf just high enough everyone could see the flesh-colored elastic poking out over the top of my grey soccer socks. I might have had a bruise one week, but nothing serious enough to trouble me more than a couple days.

In my mind, though, when I scored a goal or made a great pass I believed the crowd would notice the additional support I “required,” then applaud louder and exclaim “Oh, he’s even done it with a bad leg!” (I clearly had a misconception about how important the games were.)

Sometimes in life we reopen wounds instead of letting them heal.

The bleeding gash – whether physical or emotional – gives us a reason to be unable. We avoid taking a step into the next phase because we’ve got an excuse not to. If we can’t do something, we’ll never be damaged again or suffer worse, right?

There’s certainly a period required for mending. Occasionally, new experiences tear the skin again while that’s going on. I get that. A time will arrive when the scab falls off and the process is complete, though. The tissue recovers to an extent that allows normal function, maybe with a blemish left behind if the cut ran deep enough.

At some point, we’ve got to learn to appreciate scars.

They add up over a lifetime, for sure. The disfigurement, large or small, shows us we made an effort. It’s the mark of an event passing into history as opposed to being carried on into the present…and beyond.

The nicks and scratches remind me when I did something wrong.

They remind me when I did something right and took one on the chin anyway.

More than anything, they remind me I at least did something.

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