Living From My Scars

I published my first blog post in January 2015 and shared my blog with some 50 close friends and family members. Then, last September, I announced on Facebook (sharing with my 470 something friends there) that I had a blog. Then, last month, I added the blog to my LinkedIn profile, alerting my professional contacts that I write this stuff.

Whether sharing my personal history and my musings on life is wise or something that everyone (family, friends, work colleagues, and strangers) should be able to access has been a topic of discussion at my house. Of course there could be repercussions. But, there is one big reason why I share my story. I share, because I am living from my scars.

Living from my scars means that my life has been shaped by the choices I’ve made. Even the wrong ones, especially the wrong ones. And while those past mistakes don’t define me, they do inform how I live my life now. They are lessons for course-correcting.

Living from my scars forces me to be self-compassionate. The scars remind me that I am human and imperfect, that I have fallen down many times. I remember this not to beat up myself but to love myself more, warts and all, and to continue getting up when I fall.

Living from my scars means that I practice self-acceptance. Every time I shine a spotlight on my depression  I feel like I’m taking away some of the stigma associated with mental illness. Who does it benefit if I keep this struggle to myself? I mean, seriously, that’s how I got some of these scars.

For me, sharing the troubles and the triumphs is living from my scars.

And I am living (joyfully and gratefully) with and from those scars.

Image courtesy of flick user Laura Lewis

Image courtesy of flick user Laura Lewis



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