I once look at my arm/legs and realize how vivid my scars are. Well, unpopular opinion: I don’t hate them (kinda), even though people find it ugly and disgusting.
I feel like any of our scars are proof that we’d been going through hell, through something dangerous, maybe through life-threatening experience, and we still survived! Look how amazing we are!
We could have given up, we could’ve died during the process, we could’ve not survived. But look, we do.
We were wounded, and we are healed. That’s where I find it beautiful.
My scars remind me that I was strong enough to survive even through the hardest day, and I AM still strong enough to face whatever awaits. I once wounded, beaten up so bad, I was near to give up, but I didn’t. I was strong enough to live, and I find it as a reminder not to give up. I didn’t get this far just to get this far.
I was wounded and I am healed.