My hands are covered in tiny white dots, barely noticeable unless you are looking for them. These scars serve as a reminder of the struggles I faced in order to stay in this world when I arrived three months before my due date.
My legs, too, are covered in scars; there are four on my left leg and three on my right leg. Six of them have been a part of me for as long as I can remember; they are the marks of a surgery that I underwent when I was two and a half years old. I used to be self-conscious about them whenever I wore shorts. I was convinced that the people walking behind me were staring at those scars, wondering about them. But those scars, the scars on my legs, symbolize what I have had to endure in order to walk on my own two feet.
The extra scar on my left leg is my newest souvenir, one that I got five years ago when my surgeon told me that I might never walk independently again. That scar reminds me that I proved my surgeon wrong.
Some people are ashamed of their scars, but I'm not one of those people. Whenever I'm having a difficult day, my scars remind me, You can do this. You've been through worse.
I am proud of my scars.
5 hours ago