The fault is not in our scars: Making peace with the scars on my body

To all my fellow uncoordinated folks on campus, I feel you. Growing up, I wasn’t the most careful or graceful collection of limbs.
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To all my fellow uncoordinated folks on campus, I feel you. Growing up, I wasn’t the most careful or graceful collection of limbs.
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I agree that it is simpler to cover up the physical evidence of a battle that sits on my chest. But showcasing my scar has allowed me to look at it as a sign of victory.
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It’s safe to say that by the age of 18, I had gotten used to that heart-sinking feeling that accompanied dressing rooms. It should have been perfect. The beach-chic high-low dress would make my legs look long and flow behind me like a superhero’s cape. On the hanger it had
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“We tell ourselves stories in order to live,” Joan Didion once astutely said. Scars, in a strange way, act as physical markers to remind us of key events in the imposed narrative in which we view our lives. They serve as permanent proof of our experiences whether we like them or not,
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It was like any other poetry reading — Robert Hass had attended hundreds at this point. But after he finished reciting poems from a recent book, someone from the audience approached him and pointed out to the Pulitzer Prize winner something that had never crossed his mind. All the poems
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