Scars.

Because they prove that all wounds can be healed. And because everyone has them. There’s the one on your left knee you got after a biking accident when you were five. The one just above your eyebrow from hitting your head off the side of a cupboard. The ones on your elbows from a game of floor hockey. And the ones lesser seen. The internal ones. The ones crosshatching your heart. Scars don’t care who you are or what you’re doing. They make an appearance in your life, and though they may hurt, it’s only because you’re alive. 

I’ll admit I have scars. Some I’m not fond of, others that don’t carry a memory. But all that are healing or are healed. I’d like to say I’m not afraid of getting more, but I am. Aren’t we all? Scars are the external versions of our problems, like ugly blemishes on something we’re told should be flawless. Who isn’t afraid to show their scars, and let the world in? 

Scars make our past tangible. They prove you once existed before the time you’re in now. They show others that you’re not afraid of failing or falling before flying. They show yourself that you’re resilient to the pain of life, and that you can handle yourself even when the world cuts too deep. Scars are nasty, but they mark your existence. They shouldn’t be feared, but rather accepted. 

Just remember: Everybody has scars. That’s because everybody has a body, a mind, a soul. Each with their own story, and each in the process of healing.