Flicker.

a song to set the scene // dear, dolores by illumining, dominique charpentier

The night had been going so well.

My family and I had just enjoyed a scrumptious dinner of spaghetti carbonara. Bringing out the Veuve, we toasted to a record breaking weekend at work and then watched Sing 2 together.

*Shocker* my dad even stayed up for the whole movie.

Going home with my gem, I almost felt high. It had truly been such a great night.

But then, as I started getting undressed to take a shower, I slowly felt that high wearing off.

It was as though this moment of undress, this one instant of being present and alone with my thoughts suddenly invited all of my worries and fears to come forth.

Reality was coming back to me; and with it, exhaustion.

With exhaustion came anxiety, pouncing through the door like Tigger.

Dread followed close behind, dragging heaviness and a sense of foreboding.

It was, simply put, about work.

Which, as of late, has been a significant stress.

Following closely to the cycle of last year, as August approaches, so do the same problems.

Unable to control what’s about to happen, and feeling overwhelmed and exhausted with serving the public day after day, I feel my body’s mental and physical health starting to wan.

Standing on thin ice, I’m losing all ability to keep things together. And with exhaustion, anxiety, dread, and heaviness all crowded in the same living room, it’s no wonder I feel as though I’m suffocating.

Bawling these ever present worries to my gem, I cried into my knees for what felt like hours.

He tried to comfort me. He kept saying things like It’ll be okay, and We’ll figure this out together but I felt as though he couldn’t really hear me, couldn’t understand what I was going through.

All logical and problem solving abilities were lost to the wind at this point. Nothing he said was going to help.

So he stopped saying anything.

And he started doing something.

Crying continuously, I sat there and sobbed as he moved about the house.

All of a sudden, he was lifting me up off the floor, and helping me to his room.

Apparently, it wasn’t words I needed, but action.

For my exhausted body: he made up a bed, just for me.

For my anxious mind: my breathe playlist, playing softly in the background.

For the dread overstaying its welcome: he had lit a candle, to show dread the way out.

For the heaviness and this sense of foreboding: my gem wrapped his arms tightly around me, reminding me that I wasn’t truly alone, that everything was going to be okay.

He had done all of this: for me.

My heart exploded with love.

As my gem continued whispering encouragements and affirmations in my ear, my tears of sorrow turned into tears of gratitude and joy.

Like an earthquake, love shook the house and emptied it of exhaustion, anxiety, dread, and heaviness.

I was suddenly radiant, filled with warmth by this flicker of hope.

Falling asleep in the safety of his arms, and love now coursing through my heart, the candle’s flame was the last thing my weary eyes saw.

Reminding me, each flicker, that there was, indeed, hope.

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.