I bear a scar on my knee that tells a wild childhood tale. It dates back to when our exuberant cocker spaniel, Max, decided to chase a cat down the street. After being dragged along for a good twenty feet, I managed to wrestle Max to a stop and limped my way home. My older brother, Jake, was hanging out in the backyard with a friend that day. He was a young adult living at home, trading free rent for taking care of things while our mom worked. Unfortunately, both he and his friend were under the influence of something stronger than just a casual buzz that afternoon.
His friend, a neighbor who often supplied him with substances, offered some “expert” advice on how to clean my wounded knee. A mother of two herself, she believed she had the skills needed to handle a child’s injury. She suggested using hydrogen peroxide and a scrub brush in the shower. The pain was unbearable, and it only intensified because Jake was too high to be gentle. There was no soothing doctor, no caring nurse—just a brother who loved me and meant well but ended up worsening the situation. The scar that resulted from that misguided treatment became a permanent reminder of that day.
Our bodies tell stories—some internal, some external. They reflect our mental health struggles, physical experiences, and family histories. Some are brief, like the tan one gets from summer days at the beach, while others are long, chronicling everything from the 38 hours of labor to the C-section scar that follows. Some stories are whispered in private; others are visible to anyone who crosses our path.
There are poetic haikus in our lives, capturing the essence of our experiences:
drug addict brother’s
good intentions scar for life
it’s here and he’s gone
I grew up with that knee scar—puckered and a mix of pink and purple. Eager to follow my brother’s questionable fashion advice (the jeans he wore in high school had “fashion victim” scrawled on the back pockets), I often hid it under long skirts, opaque tights, or jeans. Looking back, I realize his guidance was likely tainted by his guilt over the incident. That scar shaped my perception of my body and influenced how I care for my children’s wounds. They have yet to experience the sting of peroxide on fresh cuts or the roughness of a scrub brush. Their childhood is untouched by drug-induced care or chaotic dog chases.
Every few years, Jake would cycle through different phases of substance use, with the last one ultimately taking his life. He chose to smoke crack with his partner instead of sticking to his antiretrovirals. Though he managed to get clean in time for a year of cancer treatments related to AIDS, some choices leave lasting marks. Watching him die young, just moments after I urged the nurse to ease his pain, became a part of my narrative. My sorrow seeped into my children’s lives as well.
Similarly, we all enter the world shaped by our parents’ stories. We are the reason they bear smile lines and gray hairs. Our identities are woven from their experiences—both joyful and painful, their triumphs, and the lessons learned from their mistakes.
Yet, we are more than just the sum of our family’s stories. While we cannot rewrite the past, we have the power to shape how our present unfolds and how it creates new, positive chapters.
Over time, my knee scar faded into just another part of my life’s tapestry, alongside stretch marks from three pregnancies and a second ear piercing I got for my birthday. I almost forgot about it until a friend, an artist, asked about it during a hot summer day. On such a day, anyone sensible would wear shorts without a second thought. I laughed and recounted the story of that day. When I reached the part about the frantic scrubbing, she suddenly pulled out her phone and snapped a picture of my scar. I hadn’t paid much attention to it for years, but she saw something beautiful in it—an abstract image of resilience.
Perhaps that knee scar has morphed into something beautiful over time. Regardless, my children now see a mom wearing shorts and sharing a laugh about the time a little dog thought he could outmatch a cat. My story continues to intertwine with theirs in unexpected ways.
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In summary, our bodies are living narratives that bear the marks of our journeys. They tell tales of love, loss, and growth, shaping not only our identities but also the stories of those around us.