A couple of days ago, I was talking with a client about scars. She'd just had surgery and a well-meaning someone, probably trying to preemptively console her, told her not to worry about her scar and that she would always be beautiful — no matter how it healed.
But the thing is, she doesn't actually care about the scar. Because the thing that caused her scar was necessary for her healing.
And, for about the hundredth time, I realized that I don't really care about my scars either. I've got a lot of them. I don't treat them like something to be afraid or ashamed of. Something I should hide or something that diminishes my beauty. And I don't revere them as badges of honor either — tangible souvenirs of times when I've been hurt and somehow found the grit, determination, and ferocity to rise above the pain because of my uncommon strength or bravery. I see them just as what they are — places where I've healed.
Not every scar comes from something that was done for your highest good. Some scars come from mistakes or accidents. And some come from wounds that you did not choose or want or need.
But the truth about all scars is that they are places where the wound has closed and you are, slowly and gently, being knit back together.
Maybe you can't be grateful for your scars. That's okay. You don't have to be. But maybe you can cultivate a bit more softness towards them. Because those scars are places where you've healed. And, in my book, healing is just about the most beautiful thing that can happen to any of us in this life... second only to love and, to absolutely no one's surprise, those two go together like peanut butter and jelly.