She once felt bashful about showing her scars. The layers, the jaggedness, and the reason for which they radiated red against her pale skin. She was different than all the other kids, whom played carelessly on the playground without having to worry about how a small scrape or cut would affect them the way they would her.
She once was scared about cutting the locks of hair that fell around her chubby face. The curls that everyone gushed about when they met her were replaced by synthetic straightness, itchy on her scalp and uncharacteristically perfect. Her ‘hair’ was different than everyone else's, because it wasn’t hers at all.
She was once afraid to be different, to have a story, to be looked at as a survivor at such a young age. She hid behind making her parents laugh, behind crushes on boys and middle school gossip, behind a mindset of never showing weakness in fear of upsetting others.
And now she shows her scars off, with passion and fervor, explaining her story to anyone who acknowledges that fact that she is indeed, different. She is proud of her scars and how they’ve help mold the woman she is becoming more and more every single day. The curls she once lost have been replaced with more bounce and a more colorful life. The story she now tells is one celebrating how she rose from the ashes of a life that was once threatened. The crushes she once hid behind have evolved into a loving companionship, both with herself and with others. And weakness is not seen as a burden but instead of an asset of authenticity.
She is malleable and tough, vulnerable and bold, a mixture of ‘I got this’ and ‘what the fuck am I doing?’ without the fear of contradiction to hold her back.