It was only standing beside that ocean, months after everything, that I understood, at last, what my scars had truly proved the whole time, and it was the very opposite of what my family had told me.

My scars did not prove I was damaged.

My scars proved that when a house was in flames and a person was trapped inside it, I was the one who ran in.

My scars proved that I was capable of a love so complete I would carry its evidence on my body for the rest of my life, for a sister who did not deserve it and would never thank me for it.

My scars proved that I had survived not only a fire but a family that confused my silence with loyalty and my mercy with weakness, and had come out the other side still able to feel, still able to choose, still myself.