What Would Your Scar Tell You If It Could Speak?

When silence costs too much, the body writes back.

Your Scar Isn’t Damage. It’s Proof.

You call me damage.

I call myself proof.

No gloss. Only truth.

I am no mask; I am the witness made visible.

I was born the day you broke, and I stayed to remind you that you healed.

You cover me.

You curse me..

But without me, you’d forget what you survived.

I mark the seam where you tore and chose repair.

Bare. True.

Where control ends and trust begins.

I am not here to shame you.

I am here because you endured.

The Map Your Soul Has Etched

Yes, I remember the rupture.

Yes, I remember the heat.

But I also remember the mending — threads of flesh weaving themselves back,

the quiet miracle of repair.

Between the heat and the healing, there is a question.

Do you?

Breathe. Place a hand where it aches.

Notice the one who is noticing.

I am a seam; awareness is the whole that holds us.

You call me a flaw.

I am evidence.

Evidence that you kept going.

Evidence that you did not collapse.

The Truth Carved in Light

If shame shows up, that’s normal.

Bring it into the light.

Courage isn’t loud.

It’s the quiet choice to stay with what’s true.

I will not let you forget:

life won.

So when you trace your fingers over me,

don’t ask, “Why are you here?”

Ask instead, What are you here to remind me of?

Because I hold more than scar tissue.

I hold the truth:

you survived what once felt unsurvivable.

Call me by my right name.

Carry me like a seam, not a wound.

An Invitation to Listen

If your scar is speaking, give it seven minutes.

A pen.

A page.

Permission to listen.

✦ Read Next➡️ A Letter From Your Nervous System — the twin to this piece,

arriving here this Saturday.

✨ This way:

Every story spoken becomes lighter for all of us.

If something in you stirred while reading, let it ripple — your words might be the reminder another reader is waiting for.

To every seam that became strength,

~ Regina 🖤