On the Beauty of Stretch Marks

Oh stretch marks, how I’ve loathed you.

Evidence of my late night binges, my waltz with the ice cream bucket at 2 AM when no one else was there to dance.

The permanent reminder of my battle with myself, will power versus the emptiness, the whisper of self control versus knowing that ‘just one more bite’ will never be. The guilt. The shame.

But I respect you. The red road map that I once decried as repulsive, now battle scars that prove my own fortitude. I have fought against the most difficult of adversaries, my own mind.

I have fought my own tendency to turn to food for comfort, to soothe a broken heart, a lonely night, an empty spirit, so easy to mistake as an empty stomach.

My body, once stretched to the breaking point, has mirrored my mind, my spirit, which too had been worn thin.

Now I can finally look upon these silvery streaks that still pucker the surface of my skin, even after all these years, without regret. I remember how far I’ve come, how far I can go, and that I am not damaged beyond repair. Just a little scratched up.


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