Sunday night, I was out with my parents when I found myself talking with a gentleman who had endured something truly traumatic. As he spoke, I listened with everything in me—while my own body quietly cried out.
Every time I shifted my weight, an open nerve in my leg flared. The slightest bump sent shockwaves—eight out of ten on the pain scale—shooting down through my leg, sharp enough to make my eyes water. My body was still worn out from camp, my soul tired, my energy hanging on by a thread. I was hurting—physically, emotionally, deeply. And still, I stayed. I let him see me. I let him hear my heart. Because even through the pain, I know how healing it can be to sit in someone else's presence and feel seen.
And in that sacred moment, my dad said something I’ll never forget.
“If you were to ask me if I would take that story away from her, I wouldn’t. I hated watching her go through all that pain and suffering. But where she is now… I wouldn’t trade that for anything.”
His words hit something in me that’s hard to describe. It’s as if all those years of tears and trauma, all those surgeries and sleepless nights, were being cradled with tenderness. That maybe—just maybe—the suffering hadn’t been in vain.
My thoughts went immediately to camp.
2006. The first time I walked through the yellow signs. I was a little girl, terrified, anxious, and desperately missing my parents. My burn injury was still fresh—just three years old—and I clung to my family like a lifeline. I was homesick to the point of heartbreak. Anyone on staff back then could tell you how hard it was for me.
But now—nineteen years later—I walk through those same signs with open arms, ready to love on kids who are exactly where I once was.
And they come carrying so much.
Some have lost family members in their accidents.
Some have lost limbs.
Some carry mountains of visible scars; others carry pain that doesn’t show up on the skin.
But all of them carry something. And yet—they still come. They still show up.
And so do we.
As counselors, we show up too—not because we have all the answers, but because we understand what it feels like to need someone who gets it. We show up in our scars, our brokenness, our tired bodies, and say: *you are not alone.*
That’s the quiet beauty in the pain—**that our deepest wounds can actually be the thing that helps someone else begin to heal.**
That my story, even the parts I used to hate, can become someone else’s hope.
If you ask my closest friends, they’ll tell you I’m a lot more insecure than I let on.
This year at camp, I wore a swimsuit I never wear—because I hate showing that much of my body. I’ve never been comfortable with it. But I did it for the kids. For the ones who need to see someone stand tall in their scars and say, *you can still live a beautiful life.*
But here’s what I’m learning:
Yes, your story can be a beacon for someone else.
Yes, your pain can bring someone else peace.
But you are allowed to take your time.
You are allowed to not be okay.
You do not always have to be the hero.
You don’t always have to be the strong one.
There is **no shame** in needing rest. In grieving. In stepping back for a while to breathe, cry, or simply *be*.
Because healing doesn’t come from constantly pouring yourself out. It comes from balance—from being brave enough to sit with your story and say, *this hurts, and I’m not ready to share it yet.* That doesn’t make you weak. That makes you human.
And when the time comes—when your story begins to feel less like a wound and more like a well—you’ll be able to offer it to others with gentleness and strength. But until then, it’s okay to simply carry it. It’s okay to let others carry *you*.
So yes—use your story.
Let it shine.
Let your scars speak for someone who hasn’t found their words yet.
Let your survival remind someone they aren’t broken beyond repair.
But also—give yourself grace.
Know that your worth isn’t measured by how many people you save.
Sometimes the most powerful thing you can do is tell someone else, “Me too,”
and then sit with them in the dark until the light comes back. There are still areas of my life than 90% of people do not know. My best friend doesn't even know it all, which im sure is going to change. But it is okay if some areas take longer to share than others!
There is beauty in your pain. There is power in your stillness. And there is healing in both.
So wherever you are in your story—whether shouting it from the rooftops or quietly surviving it day by day—know this:
You matter.
You are not alone.
And your pain might just be the stained-glass window someone else needs to see, to believe that beauty can still shine through the broken pieces.
There is beauty in the pain.
Even when it hurts.
Even when you’re tired.
Even when you’re not ready to tell the world.
Never forget that!
