I have a scar in the crook of my right elbow. It’s very light and most people never notice it, but its existence somewhat comforting for me. I got it one year in Florida. I think it was the last time my mom and I visited my grandparents together at their winter home.
We were going to visit some other family and I was already stressed out because my Jewish mom and grandparents were being loud and every-so-slightly neurotic. We got all the way down to the car before my grandfather realized he forgot the directions.
I offered to go back up to their third floor apartment to get them, but I wasn’t happy about it. It wasn’t really the inconvenience of going back upstairs. To be honest, I was a little relieved to get some time by myself and take a non-neurotic breath before spending more than an hour in the car with all the energy of my family. Now that I look back on it, I think I was frustrated more because it was so unlike my grandfather to forget something like that and it was one of the first signs that he was getting really old.
Anyway, I may have opened the door to their apartment a little too forcefully when I got back upstairs and my elbow got caught on a metal piece of the door. It started bleeding profusely right away and I knew that it was going to scar. I remember letting out a disgusted breath; not only would I have to find the directions, but now I would have to get a bandage too.
Although my negative inclinations seem silly now, I do remember thinking in the moment that I would be happy to have this scar. That I could always look back at it and remember the feeling of being at my grandparents’ house. There was and is something reassuring about it.
I’ve learned that scars don’t always show up the same way. There are the physical scars that constantly remind us of things, times, places, and people. The ones we can look at that instantly transform us somewhere else. My hands, legs, and even more forehead are littered with scars like this.
Then there are the hidden scars even we don’t see. The ones that affect us in unusual ways—like making us shy away from certain opportunities or that color our relationships with the people in our lives.
My friend and I were talking about these hidden scars this morning. One of my biggest hidden scars is about my father, with whom I have almost no relationship. I have definitely struggled with this scar throughout my life, but I have also honored those feelings enough that I usually find myself at peace about them.
During our conversation, though, I realized that just because you make “peace” with one of these scars does not mean that it heals. Like the physical scars on our bodies, they are always with us. And even if we have a good outlook about them, they can still pop up at unexpected times and muddy the aesthetic of our minds.
I also realized, though, that it’s okay if that happens. Because, like the scars on our bodies, these hidden scars tell the stories of our lives. If we let them, they can remind us of where we’ve been and allow us to stay centered as we move on to where we are going.
Instead of being disgusted by my scars, I’m going to try to feel some gratitude about them and understand that they helped shape me physically and emotionally.
And to realize that there is something soothing about the fact that they are always with me.
