The Scar

I didn’t expect the scar.

There are details surrounding how it got here that I’ll share another day. That story deserves its own space.

But today, I want to talk about what remains.

A line across my body.

A permanent reminder that sometimes life does not unfold the way you pictured it and that doesn’t mean God has left the story unfinished.

For a while, I looked at my scar and saw what my body had been through. The pain. The interruption. The recovery. The version of myself I had been before it was there.

It’s strange how something can be both evidence of one of the greatest gifts of your life and a reminder of one of the hardest experiences your body has endured.

I think that’s what pain does.

It leaves evidence.

Sometimes physically. Sometimes emotionally. Sometimes in places no one else can see.

And our instinct is usually to get rid of the evidence.

Heal it. Cover it. Fix it. Get back to normal.

I’ve spent much of my life teaching women how to transform their bodies. I understand discipline. I understand rebuilding. I understand looking at where you are and creating a plan to get somewhere else.

But this season is teaching me something different:

Not everything that changes you needs to be erased.

Some things need to be honored.

My scar is healing, and yes, I’m still learning my new body. I still have moments when I look in the mirror and search for the woman who was there before pregnancy, before motherhood, before this line became part of me.

But I’m beginning to understand that finding her again may not be the assignment.

Maybe I’m supposed to meet the woman who came after her.

The woman who knows more about surrender.

The woman who understands that strength isn’t always lifting something heavy. Sometimes strength is allowing yourself to be carried. Sometimes it’s resting when everything in you wants to perform. Sometimes it’s accepting that your body can look different and still be worthy of your admiration.

And sometimes strength looks like a scar.

There’s a temptation to romanticize pain once we survive it. To rush to the lesson because the lesson makes the hurt feel more acceptable.

I don’t want to do that.

Some things hurt.

Some seasons are hard.

Some experiences take time to make sense of.

Purpose doesn’t mean the pain wasn’t painful.

It means the pain doesn’t get the final word.

I’m learning that purpose can grow in places I never would have chosen to plant it.

This scar has made me think differently about my body, my work, womanhood, motherhood, strength and even healing itself.

I have spent years helping women rebuild.

Now I get to rebuild too.

Not because I am ruined.

Because I am changed.

There is a difference.

Maybe that is what I want to remember when I look at this scar years from now.

Not just what happened.

Not just what hurt.

But what grew from it.

The deeper compassion.

The softer strength.

The new perspective.

The woman I became.

I don’t know everything this scar will come to represent yet. I’m still close enough to the experience that some of its meaning is probably still unfolding.

But I know this:

I refuse to let pain be wasted.

If it changed me, I want it to deepen me.

If it slowed me down, I want to hear what I couldn’t hear while I was moving so fast.

If it left a scar, I want the scar to remind me of more than the wound.

I want it to remind me of what came through it.

My son.

A new version of myself.

A deeper understanding of strength.

And perhaps a new purpose I’m only beginning to see.

So no, I’m not ready to tell the entire story yet.

But I can finally look at the scar.

And instead of only asking, Why did I have to go through this?

I’m beginning to ask a different question:

What am I supposed to do with what I survived?

Maybe that’s where purpose begins.

XO,

Coach