Scars reflect more than takes—they are the echoes of our most human moments, carved into us by life’s trials. They bring hurt, yes, but also an unarguable tenderness, ultimately moving in soft tones that words can never express. Whether one has a disfiguring scar that is easily visible or a less visible one that is deep down inside, the experience of surviving the event will be as heavy as ever. They are the living beings’ fingerprints, evidence that being alive is also exposing ourselves to weakness.
The first scar that stuck in my memory appeared because of my gaining freedom and taking risks. I was eight, motoring down the hill with my hair all wild and a smile spread out wider than the horizon. It was an awesome kind of rebellion until the bicycle swerved, a rock got in the way, and I supped on gravel. The pavement tore into my knee; the barb of the hot street bit deeper than I thought. I recall how I was shocked by the unexpected pain and started to cry with the blood pooling up in my small, quaking hands. Nowadays, it is just a pale, silvery line slanting my right knee that is hardly seen. Nevertheless, I can sense it—the song of my childhood is its tune, the very one that gave me the thrill of adventuring the skies for a moment.
It was not until later times that I was faced with yet another scar on my body…this specific one aggrandized near my left hand. The moment, however, was the result of a loss of supervision, a minor wound that occurred from a slip of the knife in my hand while cutting an apple. It was not an awful injury, but it hurt so much that I felt so little even though I was the one to blame. Initially, I was upset and frustrated by it—a tiny mark, but it felt so loud to my hypercritical eyes. However, with time, I have come to see it as a reminder—of fragility, of patience, and of the fact that life’s sharp edges are the ones that actually teach us the most enduring lessons.”
However, some scars are invisible, unseen yet deeply felt. The loss of a friend it was, raising the question whether these things from a stitch-up and pegging the ranks of them are given by the dark loss. Grief is not about leaving your heart spotlessly untouched; rather, it is about tearing up the heart through and through and then leaving it to remake itself. Even now, that scratch pains me, such unexpected moments. The favorite tune will be played, their smiles will be echoed by my memories, or I will keep on dialing the number; however, no one will respond. This is just a wound that makes me realize how much I did love them and also of the indescribable thing that existed between us even if it was only for a little while.
There are pieces of my body that I have tried to keep from everyone to see, and others I have grown fond of. The ones that were made by heartaches and setbacks were the most severe, each one screaming at me, “You weren’t enough.” My bruises were like proof of my incapacity; the list of all the things I should be, which I had failed, was out there. But now, these scars too are softer than before. They have become less intense, turning from the act of blame to positive comments.” Stats say, “You didn’t fail or deprive yourself. You led.” They remind me that scars aren’t signs of defeat but evidence of courage—of taking the risk to care, to hope, and to leap.
When I encounter someone else’s scars, I am filled with a calm respect. To respect the bravery that lies beneath, I don’t need to know their specific story. Scars are sacred; they are evidence that we have had both visible and invisible battles, and yet we are still standing. They are proof of survival, quiet victories we rarely celebrate but should do more often.
As I move my hand along the constellations of scars on my body, I hear separate voices calming each other but complementing each other as they resonate. Each one narrates to me a tragic tale of pain, healing, and growth. They do not speak of perfection but of perseverance. I used to think of scars as bad dreams, something to cover up and hide. But now, I see them as signatures—flaws in life that give a unique, lasting, and deep impression of the truth. They tell me that beauty is very often discovered in the cracks, in the places where the light has filtered through.
Here’s to the speaking scars. We can listen to the stories with open minds. We can pay our respects to the honesty, even when it is cruel. We may use them as symbols of victory, for they are not just scarring notes—they are evidence of our coming through, our being human, and our capacity to fix.
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