Do you remember the first time you skinned your knee? Maybe you had fallen off your bike when you were six, or maybe you had slipped off the monkey bars when you were seven. Maybe you even cried a little. You probably wondered why it hurt so much.
Maybe your mother was there for you then. Maybe she picked you up, dusted you off, and told you everything would be alright. Then she probably puts some antiseptic on it, to help it heal, she had said, and then it hurt even worse than before. Then she gave you a band-aid, and after a few weeks, you forgot it ever happened.
What about the first time you broke your arm? Maybe it was during your soccer match when you were ten, or maybe the tree you climbed when you were eleven was just a little bit too high. Maybe you didn’t cry, even though it hurt. It hurt more than you thought it would.
Maybe you didn’t expect it would break. Maybe you were being a little reckless. Maybe you were being careful and it broke anyway.
They told you it would take time. They told you it would never be the same as it was, but soon it would be strong, stronger than it ever was before. You had been hurt and you didn’t want to get your hopes up. Maybe you were angry because you had been hurt before and you were tired of getting hurt. Maybe you were a little sad, too, because it hurt so much in the first place.
Or maybe you were patient instead.
Time passed, as time does, and the bone that was broken grew back sturdier and stronger, just like they said it would. It grew to support you, and you grew too, so you stopped being so angry and sad and you allowed yourself to be happy instead.