It's taken thirty years to get here. Heartache and growing pains. Shifting, moving, replacing, eliminating, choosing. Lessons learned, do-overs and try-agains. Tears, many of those. Some tears that tore through flesh and bone from the depths of the most buried parts of my soul. Others that gently seeped from the outermost layers of my skin like a glistening dew. This new skin that grew to cover my scars and make me feel beautiful again. This new skin that I willed to grow through my hardest moments. Repeatedly healing the wounds that split wide open, forcing me to start over. I worked to patch the old skin that had dried up and flaked off due to misreading the care label stitched on the inside. I continued to ask myself for healing, for new skin to grow where I needed it most.
For my 30th birthday, I gave myself that new skin. It's stitched together like a patchwork quilt. The thread made up of strings of letters I've written myself. Love letters written to me, in my own handwriting. Though you can't see the seams from the outside, I can feel them. As life brushes against my arm in passing, I can feel it snag a bit where two patches meet. A little friction, a slight tug. But the seams are strong. The stitching, like a quality weld, meant to hold against the pressure and the test of time.
When I run the tips of my fingers across my bare chest, I can feel those seams. The skin there is just a little thicker than the rest. And it brings a smile to my face. A sense of certainty and knowing. I trust those jagged lines with my life. They will protect me when I need it most. They will serve as reminders of my strength and resilience. They make me feel beautiful and strong. They are peace. They are thirty.
