Scars Don’t Define You, They Decorate You.
When I was two years old, I suffered third-degree burns in what could only be described as a freak accident—an unpredictable twist in an otherwise ordinary day. It was an afternoon bathed in warmth, the kind that lingers in early childhood memories. My mother, my brother, and I were at home, wrapped in the quiet simplicity of family life. Though my recollection of that time is naturally blurred, I can still feel the lingering echoes of happiness, security, and the effortless safety that only a mother’s presence can provide.
That day, my mother was making a rare treat—Ninja Turtle Kraft Dinner, a childhood relic that, to my dismay, has since been discontinued. I sat perched on the counter beside the stove, observing the world through the unfiltered wonder of a two-year-old. My mother, with her ever-gentle hands, lifted me, and in that instant—so brief yet so defining—my elbow struck the pot of boiling water. The scalding liquid met my young, fragile, impossibly fair skin. Chaos erupted. Pain, raw and consuming, overtook me. We rushed to the hospital, my mother cradling me tightly in her arms.
As she carried me through the emergency room doors, my head rested against her chest, my ear pressed close enough to hear the rhythm of her heartbeat. It was fast, powerful, and full of devotion—much like the woman herself. That sound, her heart pounding with fear, love, and urgency, is my first cognitive memory. And in the long month that followed, as we remained in the hospital together, that heartbeat became my anchor. It was proof that I was safe, that I was loved, that I would endure. Even at such a young age, I understood—one moment can change everything.
And yet, despite this, my childhood was wonderful. My life was filled with laughter, play, and the love of a great family. I grew up knowing all of my grandparents, exploring the world with wide eyes, learning keenly, and living freely. My scars—sharp, textured, and covering nearly a third of my body—seemed to unsettle others far more than they ever troubled me.
That truth became unshakably clear when I entered high school. My peers, confined by their own insecurities, found mine an easy target. They called my scars ugly. They whispered about them as though they were contagious. They tossed out lazy, uninspired nicknames like “chicken skin” and “scar girl,” revealing more about their own lack of depth than anything about me. But the words never pierced me. I carried something they couldn’t touch—confidence. While they tried to make me feel lesser, I walked the halls knowing I was adorned with something they lacked: resilience.
Scars, I have come to learn, tell stories. Some bear witness to tragedy—house fires, violence, battles that no one should have to fight. My heart aches for those who carry scars born of suffering. Others wear theirs as symbols of strength—marks of survival, of transition into their true selves, of victories over cancer and hardship.
For me, my scars are a love letter to my mother. They are not reminders of pain but of devotion—of the way she held me in that hospital, of the sound of her heartbeat that still echoes in my memory. They are a testament to my acceptance of being different, to the beauty in standing apart, and to the privilege of sharing my story.
To anyone who has ever been made to feel small because of the way they look: that is not your burden to carry. That struggle belongs to those who try to impose it on you. You are whole, you are worthy, and you are limitless—despite, or perhaps because of, the hardships you have endured.
I live a full, unburdened life. I choose to surround myself with people who celebrate me, not shrink me. And I choose, above all else, to love this body I have been given—for every mark, every scar, and every story it holds.
Life is outrageously short —too short to waste on self-doubt, playing small, or pretending to enjoy small talk. We have no choice but to accept these wayward meatbags we call bodies, with all their quirks, scars, and unexpected rebellions. So we may as well love ourselves through the whole goddamn ride—every stumble, triumph, midnight craving, and questionable decision, because this is it.
This body, this mind, this unrepeatable, gloriously chaotic existence is ours alone. Own it, revel in it, and take up every inch of space you were meant to fill—this ride is yours.