Scars of Life

When I was about nine years old, my mother handed me a broken plate she had dropped and asked me to carry it out back to the ash pile. We heated with coal then, and the ash pile was where all remnants of the fire were discarded.

I remember stepping out the back door, walking toward that gray mound, and tossing the plate aside. In my carelessness, a jagged edge caught the calf of my right leg. The cut left a scar that stayed with me for years before finally fading away, taking with it the visible reminder of a childhood mistake.

But not all scars are so willing to disappear.

Some settle deep within us, beyond the reach of time or healing hands. They do not live on the surface where others can easily see them; instead; they burrow into the soul. Now and then, they make themselves known — in a look, a hesitation, or a quiet moment—but mostly they remain hidden, shaping us in ways we scarcely understand.

Many spend years trying to uproot such scars. We talk them through, medicate them, revisit them, hoping to draw them out into the light where they might finally lose their power. Yet most of us come to realize that these deeper wounds are not easily removed.

Few people journey through life without gathering scars along the way. At times, they feel like heavy burdens we carry on our shoulders, weighing us down, slowing our steps, and tempting us to withdraw from the world. Left unchecked, they can keep us from joy, from connection, from the very life we live.

For a long time, I tried to ignore my own scars, believing that moving forward meant leaving them behind. But they have a way of returning, especially when we are most vulnerable, reminding us that what is unacknowledged is never truly gone.

In time, I came to recognize mine. I carry three. Two were given by family, one unknowingly by my father, the other with intention—and the third came from a superior during my working years. Each left its mark in ways that shaped who I am.

Years have passed since those wounds were first etched into my life. While they have not disappeared, I have learned to quiet them, to keep them from defining my days. They remain a part of me, but they no longer control me. I try to keep them locked away, and in that, I count a quiet victory.

I owe much of that victory to my wife, who has never brought a day of unhappiness into my life. When I am tempted to take credit for the peace I now enjoy, I remind myself where it truly belongs—with her, with my faith, and with the many family members and friends who have blessed my life in countless ways.

Life has taught me you cannot overcome a battle you refuse to acknowledge. We must recognize our scars for what they are. We may never erase them, but we can choose how we live with them. We can keep them from ruling us, gripping the key in hand, determined that they will not define the rest of our story.

Scars remind us of where we’ve been; they do not have to dictate where we are going.