We all have scars.
The skinned-knee scar is an instant reminder to tie my shoelaces when bike-riding. The small, round scar, just below my 3/4 sleeve-line, a reminder of the chicken pox I had at nine years old. The C-section scar, a reminder of exactly when I really fell in love for the first time.
These are the scars that people can see; that, perhaps (depending on where they are), people inquire about. The scars that aren't so visible to others run much deeper; some are still painful and some still turn my cheeks red with shame or embarrassment, anger or humiliation. We all have them; they are the scars we don't talk about but we feel them and live with them every day.