One of the first things that people notice about me is the massive scar on my leg. Recently, I was thrown into a panic when I passingly glanced at my leg and did not immediately see my scar. I quickly searched for that familiar, knotty ridge that has been my constant companion for so long. Phew, it was still there. Fading, but still there. And it got me thinking: what would I do without my scar? Who would I be without my scar? My scar is a steadfast confirmation that I’m me. In my life, I have learned that the distance from incident to tragedy can be only a short walk, and that the path may be littered with all kinds of unexpected calamity. The scars that these afflictions leave, forever serve as an indication and remembrance of the battles that I have fought and won. I accept my scars as what they are: born out of ordeal and hardship and acting as a constant element of my identity, reminding me that I survived. The reality of living a full life is that I will meet my share of adversity, and that some of this adversity is going to leave its mark on me. A few years ago, I vowed to no longer view my scars as disfigurements but as unwavering reminders that I am blessed, that I am tough, that I won the fight.
This place has everything
Lucy in Paris