Two weeks ago I acquired a new scar.

The moment it landed on my skin, I knew it would leave a mark. And with it, a memory.

It happened outside on a beautiful summer day. I was playing frisbee with my dog Bodhi while he was tethered to a screw-in stake buried deep into the earth.

Imagine a red frisbee in place of that tennis ball.

We moved quickly, the dance of dog-human play time. A few times I got between him and the stake, his plastic-covered metal cord coming close to my legs but never quite making contact. I moved fast to avoid what trouble it may bring.  

In true retriever form, Bodhi will attempt to catch most anything that moves (getting him to release what he’s caught is a whole other story). And as much as I long for a well-behaved off-leash dog, I know that’s sometimes asking too much: the yard is rife with chipmunks, bordered by a busy highway, and encircled with an abundance of lush poison ivy. If that is not a recipe for dog-related disaster, I don’t know what is.

These little buddies are cute, but they drive Bodhi crazy. If only he could catch one!

On this sunny June day, we were having fun, we were happy; after years of being an apartment-dwelling-city dog, I was proud to see Bodhi adjusting to country life.

And then it happened: I ended up between him and his stake, and as he took a circle around me, I was too slow in jumping over the cord. Instantly, the thick, sturdy cord – powered by a 75 lb Labrador drunk on the thrill of frisbee-chasing – bore into the soft flesh of my lower leg.

My yelp scared him. Poor dog. I ran inside to check out the damage of my rapidly swelling ankle. At least I hadn’t fallen and broken a bone, right? Always a silver lining. 

Over the following days, I watched as this wound – somewhere between a burn and a tear – transformed into a gruesome display of physical healing. My immune system worked overtime to develop a new protective layer, and despite my efforts with fresh aloe vera gel, coconut oil, vitamin e, and a few swabs of polysporin, the pain still woke me in the night, and the desire to itch was unbelievable. 

One week later, another disappointing discovery: that enthusiastic jump from floating raft into lake that had elicited belly-flop type sensations in my leg had indeed re-opened the wound and tore off all remnants of healing. Back to (grotesque) square one. 

No one said healing was easy.

Finally, two weeks after that fateful frisbee mishap in the yard, the skin is healed and the pain is (almost) gone. In its place lays a thick scarred stripe across the front of my leg, obvious to anyone with eyesight and not exactly the summer vacation postcard I desired.

But. It’s there. And while the scar may fade, it’s unlikely to fully disappear. It’s mine now.

Like the white half-moon on my forearm, the result of trying not to drop something while reaching over a fresh-from-the-oven pyrex lid, this scar will remind me of a moment.

Like the chicken pox scar on the top of my lip, or the one just below it on my chin, this scar is now a part of me. 

Like the small scissor-induced V shapes scattered across my left hand from a decade of professional hair styling, this scar is a reminder that I am human.

This new stripe on my leg is a reminder of a life well lived.

• Maybe I wouldn’t have gotten the scar if I hadn’t been playing with my dog.
• Maybe I wouldn’t have the half-moon on my arm if I hadn’t been passionately cooking for the people I love.
• Maybe my chicken pox scars wouldn’t have occurred if I’d never lived to see 16 (the year I got chicken pox – over March break – so no school missed. HOW UNFAIR!).
• Maybe I wouldn’t have little V’s on my hands if I’d never discovered how much I loved cutting hair. 

We can’t always prevent the painful moments or the scars that result, and we’ll never be fully prepared for any one incident that is difficult, traumatic, or debilitating. It might look ugly from time to time; maybe even horrifyingly ugly. People might even stare because of it. But what can we do? Stop living so as to preserve our perfection? 

Maybe our scars – the physical, mental, emotional, and psychological scars – are just reminders of being human. 

Maybe they’re the Universe’s way of reminding us that we are mortal, and not indestructible. 

Maybe each and every scar and mark on your body is not a sign of weakness or failure or mistake, but a reaffirmation of life itself:

“I lived through this and I have the memento to prove it.”

What if we embraced our imperfections and our ‘flaws’ and every one of our ugly bits not because it’s the ‘right’ thing to do, but because life will be awfully long if we go through it regretting moments and actions and blaming ourselves for every little thing?

The truth is, my dog gave me a tattoo of a beautiful sunny day spent playing in the yard. It is a permanent memory of our joyful time together, and I will never forget how I acquired this ankle stripe. 

I could look down and think “Oh how ugly! That doesn’t match my outfit!” Or I could just be ok with it and let it go, because the scars never stop coming. That is life. Why resist them at all? 

On that sunny June day, I learned to embrace my imperfections in favour of honoring my memories. And I also learned to keep more distance in future frisbee games.