Ever since I was a little girl, my arms and legs have been covered in scars and bruises.
When I was little, I tripped over very often. I also had a habit of climbing trees and venturing into the wild bushes to chase the tropical frogs residing in the hills where we used to live.
When I was older, I had scars from motorbike accidents, from falling down stairs, from climbing mountains, from doing silly adventurous risky things that we all do in our 20s.
When I became a mother, my body was covered in stretch marks, plus other visible and invisible marks of child birth.
And since as young as I can remember, I was told that these scars were ugly. They are not ladylike, so I should cover it up, or use cosmetic products and have procedures done to get rid of them. These voices are reinforced over the years, by the clothes that I’m supposed to wear, the products that are advertised to me, to the flawless beauty standards that are imposed on me by social media.
But this is the age of positive feminism, and as an artist I often ponder upon the idea of “beauty”, I question myself if these voices in my head are telling the truth.
For me, beauty comes from things that have meaning. They are anything that upheld virtue, values, carry symbolism and inspire thoughts. It doesn’t come from just an appearance of things, but rather from a radiating essence.
In this sense, I absolutely think my scars are the most beautiful. Yes, even the long dark deep cut that runs down the front of my leg, to the chip in my front tooth, to the textured acne scars on my face. Each of them have meaning to me, a memory or an experience that are building blocks of my own being. They are marks inflicted on me by the life I’m living. And they tell fascinating stories that I am proud to share with others.
Sure, they were all painful to experience, some cost me a lot of blood and tears, some took months to heal, some never did heal, but they are here to stay with me. So I get to decide where to love or hate them. And I love them all wholeheartedly.
When a soldier returns from battles bearing scars, they are marks of strength, survival, and victory. They wear them with pride and receive appreciation.
But when a mother returns from childbirth, which she fought for the life of herself and her child, her marks are considered unattractive, undesirable, something to be concealed or be ashamed of, with thousands of cosmetic products and clinics available with the promise to erase them completely. Like it never happened.
Surely both can’t be the truth. They are so contradictory, yet its nature is the same.
I do understand some scars are painful to look at, reminders of memories we would like to forget, so it is natural for someone to want to get rid of them, as part of their healing process. But if they are part of something meaningful or come from a place of positivity, they shouldn’t be judged entirely based on their appearance, as should all things.
And then there are scars that we don’t see. In our minds and in our souls. They are harder to see, therefore maybe they are harder to love.
We’re all wearing scars, whether we see them in each other or not. Some are still aching, some left permanent marks. But behind each of them, there’s a story to be told, a lesson to be learned, and new growth awaits.
We just have to embrace them. Tell them they are beautiful, and as they are parts of ourselves, we accept that we are beautiful.
From my heart to yours,
Milie
My artwork "Two of water lilies" - Oil on canvas.
To me, water lilies are the symbol of strength and grace. The way they can shoot through layers of mud and water to bloom is powerful like a canon, but the flowers are so elegant and pure.
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