There’s a scar on my left knee from when I was eight years old and decided I was Evel Knievel. My bike didn’t make the jump, but I sure did—right into a thorny rose bush. I sport the faint crescent of that summer rebellion to this day, a faded reminder of scraped knees, boundless guts, and the kind of bold risks only a sugar-fueled kid dares to take. I thought of that scar last week while sitting across the table from someone I hoped might be the beginning of something. His eyes flicked down as I adjusted my skirt, and he asked, with just a hint of a smile: “What’s that from?”
Scars have a way of telling stories, whether you’re ready to share them or not. Some we wear proudly, souvenirs from life’s wild leaps. Others are better buried, tended quietly because no one but us really needs to see them. Either way, they’re inevitable—both the literal ones and the metaphorical kind that come from the infinitely messier side of existence: love, heartbreak, messy Wednesday-night arguments, and starting over (again). Love leaves marks, just like that thorny bush. The question isn’t whether you’ll get them—it’s what you’ll do with them.
Every Scar is a Story
Think about your favorite movie hero. Indiana Jones, for instance, isn’t interesting because he’s flawless (I mean, the man’s afraid of snakes and his hat’s permanently frayed). He’s compelling because he wears his scars—physical and emotional—with a rugged charm that makes us root for him. We don’t want to watch perfect people with immaculate lives; we want to watch someone climb out of the pit, dust themselves off, and point at the next impossible task with a grin that says, “Alright, let’s do this.”
Relationships work the same way. If we all walked around pretending we hadn’t hit the proverbial rose bush from time to time, what would we even talk about? Scar stories—whether they’re shared on a rainy third date or whispered just before sunrise a year in—are what connect us. They say, “Here’s where I’ve been, here’s how I survived, and here’s why I’m still trying.” Vulnerability isn’t weakness—it’s courage.
The Scars We’d Rather Hide
But let’s be honest—no one wants to shout their most embarrassing mistakes or heartbreaks from a rooftop. Not all scars wear well like an old leather jacket; some feel more like a neon sign that says, “Bad decisions—open all hours!” Mine? I once bought a karaoke machine as a grand romantic gesture. It ended with me belting “Jolene” to an audience of one man and three very startled cats. It’s not my proudest moment.
I wanted so badly to win that guy’s heart that I forgot the golden rule of love: don’t try to be someone you’re not. I’m Savannah—East Nashville-born, find-me-at-the-back-of-the-bar-tapping-my-foot Savannah. Belting out karaoke? Not for me. That relationship didn’t last (shocking, I know), but when I think about it now, I don’t feel mortification anymore. That scar reminds me of how hard I tried, and more importantly, what wasn’t right for me.
We’ve all got these bruises. The engagement that ended two months before the venue deposits were due. The friendship that shattered because you couldn’t say the words “I’m sorry” fast enough. The one-sided love that stretched on for years until it hit you like a freight train—you were the only one still holding on. Hindsight turns even our most painful scars into little pieces of wisdom over time, but first, they ache.
How to Embrace Your History
If you’ve been tiptoeing around your own scars—hiding them behind perfectly curated Instagram pictures or dodging hard questions at dinner parties—maybe it’s time to let them breathe a bit. Here’s how to make peace with them:
1. Name It, Own It, Love It - Whatever it is, it happened. Whether it’s a breakup that gutted you or a mistake that still burns when you think about it, acknowledging it is the first step. Denying your scars doesn’t erase them; it just prevents them from healing properly.
2. Share Selectively
- While honesty is key, there’s no need to trauma-dump on someone over coffee. Share what feels natural as your connection deepens. You don’t owe anyone the novel version of your pain; the haiku will do just fine until the trust grows.
3. Find Light in the Dark
- What did it teach you? Maybe that heartbreak taught you what love isn’t. Maybe that bike jump-gone-wrong taught you to be bold even when you’re scared. Frame your scars not as failures, but as evidence of your resilience.
4. Stop Comparing
- Here’s the thing: we’ve all got baggage. Stop worrying about whether your struggles are more or less dramatic than someone else’s. This is your journey, your battle, your beautiful, flawed, chaotic life. Own it.
The Funny Thing About Scars
Here’s the irony: the very things we try hardest to hide are often what draw people to us. That guy across the table? The one who spotted my knee scar? He didn’t just ask about it; he told me about a gash on his high school knuckles from a botched woodworking class before I could even finish my story. Turns out he’s a carpenter now (cue swoon).
When we stop worrying about being perfect, we get the chance to connect over the good stuff—the messy, human, vulnerable stuff. A shared laugh over what we’ve been through trumps awkward silences over shiny, façade-heavy perfection any day.
Love is A Collection of Stories
In Nashville, we say every good country song gets written because somebody’s heart got broken. Life in all its messy, unpredictable glory has a funny way of giving us the most material at our lowest lows. The greatest love stories aren’t about unscarred people; they’re about people who’ve been through hell and still have enough hope to try again. You’re not defined by the scars you carry—you’re defined by how you choose to live with them.
So, the next time someone asks where that scar came from, tell the story. Whether it’s about leaping your bike like Evel Knievel or falling too hard a little too fast—it’s yours. It’s interesting. It’s you.
Scars aren’t the end of your story. They’re just proof that you’ve lived. Now go live some more.
