When I first started dating my husband Luke, I covered my mouth anytime joy tried to sneak out of the corners of my mouth. This was something I didn’t realize I had learned to do over the years, but it is something Luke caught onto right away. A few weeks into knowing each other, I received the first ever coveted “Goodnight, beautiful.” text from him. My heartbeat quickened and, unknowingly, I covered my shy smile with my left hand. Seconds later, he sent a second text saying,

“Let me guess, you’re covering your gorgeous smile and your green eyes are twinkling. Right?”

What. The. What???

Puzzled, I glanced around my apartment wondering how in the world he would have known something about me I didn’t even know about myself (also wondering if this incredible, seemingly normal man I had already known would be my husband was somehow in my apartment creepily staring at me…). Nope, thankfully, the latter was false. The next time I saw him, I noticed he had put a green heart emoji alongside the monkey covering its mouth emoji next to my name in his phone. To this day, my name is still listed the same in his phone. The monkey and myself, however, are no longer as similar as we used to be.

Not even a month after my spinal tumor resection spinal fusion surgery in November of 2017, one of my family members offered to buy Mederma for my still bloodied and stitched scar, so I could use it as soon as the scar had closed up completely. God love them, they were really trying to be helpful. But to both of our shock, I instantly and abhorrently rejected the offer.

What?! NO. I don’t ever want to lose this. This is part of my story now. I want it with me. Forever. Wedding day and all.”

The scar that snatched me out of my “normal” life forever, the one that caused pains I still cannot begin to wrap my head around, the one that left a big question mark on what the future will look like for the rest of my life, I was suddenly very protective of. Hm.

Flash forward 6 months later and we are looking at Our Wedding Day. I have lost majority of my muscle mass since the surgery. The body I worked hard for (and, might I add, did not appreciate nearly as much as I wish I would have…) the body that tried my wedding gown on pre-tumor and looked womanly and bridal… was no longer there. Needless to say, things fit differently. My seamstress had to adjust everything quite a bit-so much so that the low back I adored so much had to be taken in, now covering my scar. I was heartbroken. After my final fitting, I called the family member who so lovingly offered to pick up some Mederma and expressed my sadness. What she said I carry with me every day.

“Kel. It’s still there. Forever. With you always. Wedding dress and all.”

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Sorry, monkey emoji, but I don’t cover my mouth when I laugh anymore. And y’all, sometimes, I really should. A cackle meets a goose meets a 5 year-old giggle, and you have my all consuming laugh. In our journey together, Luke slowly but surely healed that “scar”. I now laugh freely, always a bit too loud, but nonetheless unapologetic, and smile all the more freely. To me, the scar of someone from my past shaming me for my smile and laugh, teaching me to hide it from the world, has now evolved into my free-flowing laugh and grin. It’s not gone. It’s still here. Forever. With me always. But it has very much evolved.

The scar on my spine is just like all of our visible and invisible scars: it tells a story. But it is ever-evolving.

Our scars, physical, mental and emotional, are always with us. But if we allow them to evolve, they can begin to tell a far more hopeful story. And maybe, actually, certainly, that hope will be felt and heard by someone whose scar may still be tender to the touch, covered up and shamed away unknowingly. Maybe their scar has calloused over so much they don’t even believe it is there. Who knows. What I do know is, everyone you interact with, even the most difficult ones of all, are scar(r)ed. And when we try to hide it and shame ourselves/others around us about it, we are only causing more of them; to ourselves and those around us.

I don’t know much. But what I do know is, being scared of our scars is prohibiting their evolution into a really bad ass (sorry, Mom) story.

Rock. Your. Scars. You have been through some horrible physical, emotional and/or mental things to earn those scars, but you are here nonetheless. Whaaat? Work it. And think on it. And decide to be OK about it. And I promise, that scar will turn into something you strut, not something you are scared of. Forever. With you always. Ever-evolving story and all.

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Photo: Creative Imaginations Photography

Dress: Chic Nostalgia Bridal

Ring: Heidi Gibson Designs


  1. I also had a spinal cord tumor removed, and I have been compiling resources for others like us. Hope you don’t mind if I link to this from my page. Beautifully written! And the photo is fabulous!

    1. Wow! What kind of tumor was yours? Neurofibroma? Mine is unfortunately too embedded into my nerves to be removed fully-so I’ll go back every few years to get more and more taken out as it grows. But I’m very blessed nonetheless! Thank you so much for sharing-so helpful to gain community in this situation. You are absolutely welcome to link to this!

      1. I had a melanotic schwannoma at T12-L1. Fortunately they could remove it. Six months out I can walk, and I am trying to work back up to my pre-op level of activity. Pain after the surgery is probably my biggest problem now, but hopefully we can get it under control.

        Really enjoy your blog! Keep up the good work!

  2. Reblogged this on Anemix and the Jabberwocky and commented:
    This is probably one of the most beautifully hopeful posts I have seen from someone who is sharing their post surgery experiences. Since having my surgery, I have wondered at the number of people posting photos of their scars – proudly, almost defiantly – on the Spinal Cord Tumor Association Facebook page. I have even noticed that I have a fascination with my ever evolving scar. I want the world to see it. I want them to know and recognize that I am a warrior. While I spend much of my time and energy trying to live my life as if this tumor didn’t change me, the undeniable truth is that is has changed me. The scar is tangible, outward proof of the changes (emotional, psychological, and physical) that I have experienced in the past six months. And here, in this blog, is a warrior who very eloquently explains what so many of us have felt. Keep rocking that scar.

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