I see you looking. I know that the first thing you see when my legs are exposed are the jagged, pink, puckered scars running right down the middle of my knee caps. Now you're wondering what could have happened to leave such awful marks. Even more common, you're disgusted by them, hoping I will shift out of your line of vision because you just can't bring yourself to look away. Many well-wishers after my surgeries assured me, "Your scars don't look that bad. I'm sure if you take care of them they will fade away soon. No one will even know they were there." I thanked them for the different home-remedies and tricks they promised would get rid of my scars. Soon, I grew to hate them the same way everyone else assumed I already did.
The spring of my junior year of high school, I tore my ACL playing lacrosse. After surgery and several months of physical therapy, I finally felt like I was in the clear. Then, just four months after my first surgery in the fall of my senior year, I fell off a ladder, again tearing my ACL. This time, I had to brace myself to start the process all over again. Not only did I undergo a second surgery, but this surgery required more extensive repair.
I spent the first two weeks after my surgery wheelchair bound because both of my legs were in braces. When I could finally bare more weight on my legs, I was still stuck using crutches for another two weeks. About a month after surgery, my walking returned to normal; I no longer needed braces or crutches to be mobile. I continued with physical therapy sessions twice a week for nine months. In physical therapy, I performed different exercises and tasks in order to regain the strength, range of motion, and confidence in my knees that I once had. After nine month from my second surgery, about 15 months from my first surgery, my orthopedic surgeon reluctantly cleared me to return to sports.
At first, I only saw the bad in my scars. Not only were they unattractive, but they served as a physical reminder of all the times I was weak during my recovery. My scars reminded of the night my doctor called confirming that I had torn my ACL a second time, and I spent the next hour crying to my parents because I knew I would never play on my high school teams again. They brought up memories of reluctantly asking people to help carry my bags or push in a chair so I could get around on my crutches. They showed me all of the times I didn't want to go to physical therapy because it was too hard and I had had enough. Looking at my scars, it was hard to see how far I had come, because I was too fixated on the athlete and person I had been before them.
Recently, a friend (and an Alessia Cara song) reminded me that scars can be beautiful. Even though I had spent the last few months wishing them away and trying my hardest to put that time behind me, I was reminded of all that my scars really did show. Yes, there were times during recovery when I complained, cried, and wished I could just be done with the whole process, but I made it through. Every time I had complained about physical therapy, I still went and got stronger. I may not have been able to help my high school teams score another basket or stop another goal, but I learned how to be an even better captain by setting an example for all of the girls off the court/field. Months later, all of my hard work came to fruition when I could finally play lacrosse again in college. Each of my weak moments meant nothing when I realized how many times I had been strong and powered through the difficult times to get to where I am today.
So please, go ahead and look. No, they aren't the prettiest but they are a part of me. My scars represent the best of me.
