never be the same.

With one hand precariously holding a hot tray of chicken tenders, and the other hand busy reaching over to close the oven door, it was a merely a second and all of a sudden, my body was forever changed.

Not drastically, of course.

(but nevertheless changed)

Because all of a sudden, that hot tray of chicken tenders touched my skin, leaving me burned.

Sending shockwaves of pain into my forearm, I sucked in a breath and shakily set the tray down, arm tingling.

“That’s a burn! Oooof that’s a burn,” I cried out, running over to the sink.

As the cold water started running over my arm, I could already see my skin changing.

“Congrats, you’re officially part of the kitchen now!” my sister announced, peering over my shoulder.

Because there, on the underside of my left forearm, was now a nasty burn: the brand that made me, apparently, officially part of the kitchen now.

As time passed, as the blister popped and the scar began to heal, I realized that this scar was not going to go away.

In fact, it wasn’t only not going to go away, but it was looking to become a permanent fixture on my body: forever reminding me of that hot tray of chicken tenders.

As this realization sunk in, I started to feel appreciative of its presence on my skin.

Truthfully, I was embracing this battle wound and showing it off with pride: this wicked scar that now stood proudly on my skin.

Those around me were somewhat confused, even more so when I started writing about it.

“You’re writing a whole blog post about your scar?”

Ohhhh but it’s not just a scar.

It’s a story.

It’s a part of my story.

As I look down at my body, I notice many scars, as I’m sure you notice some on yours, as well.

There’s one on my shin from playing basketball in the sixth grade.

I’ve got one on my lower lip from falling down the stairs as a youngster and biting through the skin.

Hugging my hips are tiger stripes in the form of stretch marks, reminding me of all the growth and change I went through as a young woman.

There’s an excess of cat scratches, including one that curves around my bicep; and now, this wicked burn scar.

While scars often have the stigma of appearing unsightly or unbecoming, I’ve always found them fascinating and personal. This tapestry that forms on one’s skin, an art piece of marks and scars should be something to celebrate and hold dear, as they are a part of one’s story, of one’s history.

Scars are reminders of the life we lived, and though they fade over time, they stay with us, forever, as reminders of what we went through, what we endured, how we survived.

Big or small, shallow or deep, they’re part of who we are, and we should honor and thank them for reminding us that sometimes, it’s really hard to hold a hot tray of chicken tenders and attempt closing the oven door without getting burned.

But hey, look at what that scar’s story is now.