I don’t think I truly processed anything the doctor said after the word “surgery” was said.
Frankly, I don’t think I had truly processed the surgery until I was wearing nothing but a hospital gown,
lying in the OR surrounded by endless machines and sharp-edged scalpels. I remember the doctor told
me to think about my favourite dream as the anesthesia took over.
Up until that point, I had treated it like another item on my to-do list, and sometimes I didn’t
acknowledge its existence at all. It was merely something that I had to get through, recover from, and
then move past. I didn’t process what happened much later; until the pain faded enough to make space
for the silent left behind.
I remember comforting those around more than letting myself sit and process what was about
to happen to me. I said things like “two weeks and I’ll be good”. I carried myself like I was calm, but
that was far from the truth. And once the anesthesia wore off, the pretending ceased. No one really
prepares you for how hard recovery is; not just the pain itself, but the way it lingers, the way it drains
you from the inside out. People talk about healing like it’s a straight line, when in fact it’s never linear
and feels like being thrown into a fog that didn’t lift for months. No one tells you how intensely
physical pain takes over everything; how it humbles you. How something as simple as standing up,
brushing your hair, or breathing too deeply can feel like a betrayal. My body, the one I had blindly
counted on, suddenly felt like it was working against me. I couldn’t stand, or walk, or get out of bed on
my own. I remember my mother had to help me brush my teeth and wash my face; what could’ve been
a bittersweet moment instead felt humiliating – like I had been stripped of every ounce of independence
I’d spent years fighting for. All my anchors fell apart and the days blurred together; the quiet hum of my
room, the ache that refused to fade, and the feeling of being stuck inside a body I didn’t recognize.
And the saddest part? I had to take my jewelry off. Seems awfully mundane doesn’t it? My earrings, my necklaces, my rings—all gone. I remember holding them in my palm like they were pieces of myself. Right before the surgery, I told my mom, “as soon as I come out of the OR, put my earrings on me, even if I’m not awake yet”. I thought maybe it would help me feel beautiful again. Like if I woke up with my jewelry back on, I’d still feel like myself.
It didn’t help. And honestly, it didn’t help for a while.
And then I saw the scars. They weren’t huge, but they changed everything. They were in places
that once made me feel feminine and confident, but now just made me feel damaged. It felt too soon to
carry marks like that. Too young to know what it’s like to look at your reflection and flinch. My
self-esteem shattered quietly. Not in some cinematic, dramatic way, but in the small, everyday moments
that followed. Getting dressed. Feeling fabric press against skiing that didn’t feel like mine. There is a
loneliness that comes with recovery that no one warns you about. Everyone checks in—with texts,
flowers, visits—and then life goes on for them while you’re still in the thick of it. Still counting
painkillers, and pushing yourself to get through the days. And that’s what recovery really was; not just
healing from surgery, but learning to rebuild trust with my body. Learning to see my body for what it
was; a vessel of beauty, strength, and resilience. Not anything else I was pushed to believe. To stop
seeing it as something that failed me. To stop wishing I could trade it for the one I had before.
Slowly, my body softened. It started to forgive itself. I learned to touch the scars without shame,
to stop apologizing for the way I looked, to stop treating my own reflection like an enemy. And
somewhere along the way, I stopped chasing “before”. I started understanding that maybe this was what
healing really looked like; messy, uneven, but honest.
And then, almost exactly a year later, I found myself standing in the Senate Chamber on
Parliament Hill. Model Senate. My heart was pounding, but this time it wasn’t fear; it was pride. I
delivered a speech under those high ceilings, the same body that once struggled to get out of bed now
standing tall in a place that demanded presence. In that moment, I felt everything; the pain, the strength,
the survival. It all merged into something whole. I thought about the girl in the hospital bed who couldn’t
even lift her arm without wincing. I wished I could tell her all that she would do. It was a full-circle
moment; not the tidy kind, but the real kind. The kind that makes you realize how healing isn’t about
returning to who you were. It’s about becoming someone new; someone who understands that beauty isn’t
something you lose when life leaves a mark on you. It’s something you grow into.
My scars don’t scare me anymore. They don’t make me feel broken. They remind me that I’ve
survived, and that survival, in all its quiet, imperfect glory, is beautiful.
And now. I walk the campus paths like they are my own. I let my hair fall and my hips sway,
and I feel beautiful. I feel whole. The same body that once trembled under fluorescent hospital lights
now carries me through morning lectures and golden-hour walks. I feel utterly, wholly feminine. I didn’t
just exist in a body; I now live in it. Because healing is about learning to live tenderly with the proof that
you did in fact heal. Scars and all.