Scars that heal.

A year after I came out of surgery, I was a mess.

It wasn’t even the diagnosis that was so terrible, or the surgery itself, though for two full years afterward parts of my neck were completely numb. What shook me most was the scar. It seemed to symbolize something much bigger than the procedure.

My body had been cut open. Someone had taken a knife to my neck. Even though I knew it was done to heal me, a part of my mind experienced it as an attack. I couldn’t get the image out of my head of a snake wrapped around my neck, tightening and tightening. Sometimes the image was so strong that I felt like I couldn’t breathe.

It felt as though a hole had been opened not only in my neck, but in my heart.

The doctor who performed the surgery was excellent, and I’m grateful for his skill. But right after the operation he said something that stayed with me: “Your neck was so easy to cut.”

I know he meant it clinically. But in that moment, it made me feel as though my body was just an object — something someone could open and close without thinking twice.

For almost a year afterward, I wrapped my neck in scarves. It was partly physical protection, but also emotional. I didn’t want to see the scar, and I didn’t want others to see it either.

My brother, who unfortunately has experienced a lot of surgery in his life, mostly as a young child, told me something that stayed with me: “No one really understands what you’re going through.” After my first major surgery, I began to understand. I couldn’t imagine being a young child and having to go through what he went through. My heart still hurts for that part of him that had to be resilient and strong and pretend it was all nothing even when it was hurting so painfully. And I am so inspired how he has dealt with it all with such regality and grace.

Over time, my scar has scar faded. Now most people don’t notice it at all. Some days I forget it’s even there, although there is still a faint physical pain, and it has permanently changed the way I exercise.

But the deeper truth is that the experience changed me.

The first few years were chaotic emotionally. There was darkness. Shame. Anger. Frustration. Resentment toward others and toward myself. I had to move through all of it slowly, piece by piece.

Even now there are days when I look at my body and feel sadness. My body changed. A part of me still experiences it as a kind of mutilation. When those feelings come up, I try not to push them away. I try to comfort the part of me that went through something so shocking and overwhelming.

The shock may never completely disappear. But the guilt and shame I once felt about it have started to fade.

Four years later, I can say something I never imagined I would say then: the experience has made me better.

I had to walk through that darkness and find my way toward a more forgiving light. Along the way I had to confront parts of myself I hadn’t noticed before: my vulnerability, my sense of control, my anger at the world, sadness at the loss of time, my fear of being damaged.

And something else has quietly taken their place: compassion.

Since that first surgery, I’ve had a few others. But the trauma of those hasn’t touched the intensity of the first one.

Some days I look in the mirror and the scar almost looks like a goofy little smiley face staring back at me. On those days I place one palm on my neck and one on my belly, and I give comfort to the parts of me that were changed forever.

I may be a little worse for wear.

But I am still me.

And while my scars may not be beautiful, they are a testament to the body’s capacity to survive, adapt, and keep going.