“Out of suffering have arisen the most powerful souls; the greatest actors are full of scars.” ~Khalil Gibran
I was born with spina bifida. When I was ten years old, doctors told me that I might never walk again after a life-changing operation.
I don’t remember all the words they said, but I remember the feeling, the moving air in the room, the adults talking carefully, the silence that followed.
Paralysis was possible.
At that time, my body was familiar with the hospital roof. I had undergone several surgeries before I fully understood what surgery meant. When you grew up, that number would increase to thirteen.
I was born with VACTERL syndrome. I had surgery to remove one kidney and repair the bladder. I also had open heart surgery and multiple surgeries on my intestines, including getting a colostomy bag and fixing it.
But when I was ten years old, I knew only one thing: my body felt uncertain.
After four days, I got up. I was in the hospital. Alone in a cold room. I could feel nothing but pain. I hit the pain button and sat up. I personally threw my legs to the side of the bed and pushed the bed with my arms.
Not because I felt strong. Not because I wasn’t afraid. But because something inside of me refuses to accept that prediction as final.
My legs were shaking. My balance wavered. But I stopped. I didn’t hear anything, and the next thing I knew, I hit the ground. This happened three days in a row.
On the third day, the nurse came to me as I was standing, and said, “I’m calling physical therapy, you’re going to walk again.” As he lifted me off the floor, I stared at the wheelchair which was no longer a dark place.
And that was the beginning of my relationship with fitness.
Basketball became more than a game. It was my conversation with my body. Every dribble sounds like evidence. Every athlete sounded like a slob. The court did not care about the medical charts; it only responded to the effort.
Through repetition and discipline, I built strength where fear had been. I continued to play in high school and later in college, not because my body wasn’t affected by the struggle, but because it adapted.
Then life tested me again.
As a young adult, after a dozen surgeries, scar tissue led to another. Due to complications and the loss of six pints of blood, I passed out.
When I woke up, walking was no longer automatic. Muscles that once reacted quickly felt distant. I had to relearn balance and rebuild my strength.
Again.
There is something soothing about teaching your body how to move twice in one life.
It removes selfishness and teaches patience.
I had moments of frustration. Times of anger. Times when I wish I had an easier way. I have compared myself to people whose health history follows you in every corner.
But something changed for me during recovery.
I gave up. I was tired. I was over hospital rooms and medicine. My friend encouraged me to eat healthy, and I received herbal treatments, as well as holistic methods, yoga, rebounding, and chiropractic care.
I stopped asking, “Why is my body like this?” And I began to ask, “What is my body teaching me?”
It taught me that strength doesn’t mean anything. It’s compatible.
It is seen until the development is slow.
Repeat the small movements until they feel natural again.
Trusting your body even when it feels strange.
It taught me that healing is rarely miraculous. It’s repetitive. It’s quiet. A thousand small decisions to keep trying.
Thirteen surgeries would have been you.
Instead, they became my training.
I learned that the body is not weak just because it has scars. Scars are proof of repair. They are proof that something was broken and healed.
My body has been opened, stitched, soothed, and measured more times than I can count. It has been defeated and doubted.
However, it keeps going.
I no longer resent its limitations. I respect his patience.
It survived in silence.
Survived the coma.
Surviving uncertainty.
And it keeps choosing to live.
I believed that resilience meant going through pain at all costs. Now I understand what it means to obey. It means working with your body instead of fighting it.
My body taught me discipline. It taught me faith. It taught me that rebuilding is possible, even when you have to start over.
Twice.
If you are in a period where your body feels like a burden instead of a blessing, I hope you will give it patience. I hope you look at your scars, physical or not, and see evidence of survival, not weakness.
Sometimes a miracle does not avoid difficulties.
Sometimes a miracle happens.
And sometimes, the most silent force just stops again.
About Jewel Jones
Jewel Jones is an herbalist, teacher, and founder of Alkaline Academy, dedicated to helping others heal through plant-based foods and holistic practices. Using her personal experience of overcoming serious health challenges, she teaches people how to reconnect with their bodies and restore their health naturally. Her work combines traditional herbal wisdom, spiritual insight, and practical lifestyle changes to empower communities, especially marginalized ones, to take their lives into their own hands.
