My Mother

I wanted to write an introduction to my Mother today (my mam, my mammy, my blood)

She was an amazing woman. She taught me a lot. She made me laugh.

I remember once, my sister asked for shelves in her bedroom- a few days later she got home to a full bench stuck to her wall with no more nails! I still laugh so much at that…

When I sat and wrote this blog though, something different came out. so I thought I’d share that instead.

My Mams Arms

My mothers arms told a story. Not in the traditional sense, with words and ink, but with scars. I think scars are a lot like words though; all made up of different sizes and meanings.

She hid her arms like she hid her story. Her arms were covered in all weathers in all materials and her story was covered with shame and fear.

I guess that was how I learned to wear shame and fear. I, like my mother, wore it beautifully. But, it wasn’t us. How could it be?

I never got the chance to tell my mother not to hide her scars, much like I couldn’t tell her to stop hiding her story. I never told her that the story on her arms added more to her beauty- It showed her strength and determination. I was too young to fully understand.

But, I am telling you now for you, for me and with the hope that the universe will carry my words to my mothers spirit-

Never hide your scars or your story.

They make you unique.

The make you so very beautiful.

My scars tell a story too. Mine are not written on my arms though, they are written on my heart and I plan to carry them through life with love and pride.

I invite you to join me.


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