This is 40: Healing in the Skin I’m In

For the last few years I have had these really gnarly warts on my thumb. I had tried everything I could to make them go away, and it was finally time to get a doctor to help me.

Past medical experiences, plus my own avoidance and conditioned belief that asking for help means I failed, make going to the doctor one of my least favorite things to do. But my desire to get those horrible growths off my hand was stronger than my pride, and I made the appointment, and I went. 

The nurse saw them and grimaced more than I thought was necessary. Then she asked, “Have you named them?”

I wanted to say, “I didn’t know most of their names. The ones I remember are undeserving of an utterance on my lips.”

Instead, I chuckled and shook my head no.

When I was a teenager, I contracted HPV. Over the years, it took my uterus and left me with pain, shame, and those vile warts on my hands. It took me two decades to understand that I had nothing to be shameful about. I was a child who should have been protected.

I only began to realize in my 30’s that what I went through was trauma. So much seems normal when you’re a kid going through it and exist in a culture that reinforces those beliefs, but having my own kids forced me to confront what I really knew but pushed aside for decades - that I needed to heal. (Ideally I would have begun healing before having them, but such is life.)

At first it was overwhelming. It felt like one minute I was a blissful newlywed, and the second I saw those two pink lines, I was Neo in the Matrix stopping bullets in slo-mo. Parts of my life that I had always thought to be a tad unconventional but basically harmless kept coming at me relentlessly. Each time I unraveled some haunting memory from my past and made strides toward any semblance of peace with it, a new one would pop up.

At the same time this unraveling held up a mirror to the present.

Why are so many of my thoughts and behaviors ruled by food and my body?

Why are certain parts of parenthood triggering to me?

Why do I have debilitating guilt and worry over such small things and constantly question my own judgment?

How has internalized misogyny and generational trauma impacted how I see myself?

My mission became clear - to heal myself and break the cycle for my family.

I immersed myself in wellness culture, proclaiming affirmations, practicing meditation, and confronting anxiety and an eating disorder. I surrounded myself with like-minded individuals interested in growth and purpose. I committed to living authentically, embracing my natural hair, deconstructing my faith, and using my voice at every opportunity.

If it terrified me, I did it anyway. Not because I’m brave, but because it was less terrifying than going backwards.

With the help of therapy, my own inner work, and the support and care of the people closest to me, I began to understand how my childhood shaped my responses, and that certain traumas I had minimized were still running the show in the background. And truthfully, they’re probably still a little more in charge than I would like to admit. 

Healing sounds like such a pretty word but in reality it can be long and painful. I’m doing all the “right” things, but some days I still find myself…affected. As I write this, I am days away from beginning EMDR therapy to treat what I believe to be C-PTSD. My hope is that this help will elevate me into my final phase of healing. (Blind optimism has always been one of my strengths.)

I’m almost forty with the lines and scars to prove it, and in this season of my life, I am choosing to embrace that. My skin holds the evidence of joy and wisdom, and that is a privilege.

I’m also choosing to love my scars, the remnants of what tried to break me but couldn’t. The tiny one over my eyebrow from when I fell as a toddler. The longer one on my forehead from when I fell at a party after someone put something in my drink. The deep one on my left wrist from one of the dark times - even I couldn’t break me, and I’m tenacious. 

The warts on my thumb finally went away two weeks ago, and they will likely leave some scars. I’m not sure yet, because like me, they are still healing. 

I painted my nails anyway. Vibrant, bright pink with gold glitter, because it felt fierce, empowered, and unapologetically bold. And that’s the energy I’m bringing with me into forty.