It’s hard to miss the scars on my arms. I’m not ashamed of them, but I am not proud of them either. I am somewhere in between, a place of acceptance, that they are a part of me, of my past and they make up the story of who I am. I have to admit that sometimes I forget that they are there, they are so ingrained with me. I am often caught off guard when someone asks what happened.
I become more aware of my scars in summer, especially since becoming a mother. I notice the looks that people give me. I try not to take their looks on board, but it’s hard when they look you up and down with an expression of pure disgust. This isn’t about fat shaming, it’s nothing to do with my size, I have received these looks when I was a smaller size.
Winter has become my favoured season. I can blend in with the crowd, I am another parent shopping with their child. I don’t feel the eyes of judgement burning into my skin. In the warmer months I become acutely aware of those around me as I move about my day with a boisterous 4 year old.
Deep down, I know that a lot of this thought process is me projecting my insecurities onto those around me. I know that for the most part people are too absorbed in their own thoughts to worry about the appearance of scars on a mothers arms. I know that even if they did, it’s none of my business what other people think of me. I know all of these things and still my self confidence is rocked when I see someone looking my way.
I am more than a seasonal mother. My parenting ability is not changed because of my outward appearance. I don’t become better at parenting because my scars are gone. I don’t automatically become a bad parent because I have them. What matters is how I treat my child, how much I love him, how much I show him that I love him.
The scars tell a story, a story that is in the past. The scars don’t write the future, I do.