scar

The scar tissue of my soul lingers in the background of everything I do.

But what if I decide not to be ashamed of it?

Not ashamed of the fact that I am, in some ways, incomplete.

That I have broken and been pieced back together again.

That I have wounds which have, in time, healed — but left their marks.

What if I choose to see them as part of me?

What if I treasure everything I’ve been through as my greatest teacher?

Because of all that, I am exactly who I am.

Uniquely me.

I carry tools in my basket that others cannot even imagine.

Tools I gathered through the hardships I have walked through.

They are like badges of honor on my chest — marks of battles survived.

Because I am a victor, simply because I made it through the war alive.

Sometimes the scar tissue aches more.

Sometimes, I almost forget it’s there.

But it would be a lie to say the scars don’t exist.

And pretending would only make it sadder.

It would help no one.

I would only be polishing a mask to look like someone else — denying parts of the road I have walked.

And in doing so, I would be throwing away the treasures I have gathered along the way:

The understanding of human fragility and the ache of living.

The hidden grace and beauty tucked inside every shard of pain.

The healing that springs from the eternal embrace of love.

A beautiful mosaic, pieced together from broken fragments, might just be the best vessel to scatter glimmers of hope into the cracks of a shattered, despairing soul.

Wounds leave their marks — but as long as there is life, even ashes can hold the seeds of new hope.

When the fire that devoured everything is finally out,

the ashes can become fertile ground for something unimaginably beautiful to grow.

And so, with a soft smile on my lips,

I gently run my hand over the aching scar and whisper:

"You are beautiful.”

Love

Pia