I have very visible scars on my face, the kind that are noticeable even to a passerby. They are there. I know they are there. And so does everybody else.
There is something fascinating I have learned about scars—how most people's description of them differ drastically from that of the person who is scarred (the scar-bearer). For example, if you were asked to describe my scars, your observation would center upon how they look, their color and shape, how they feel to the touch. But that's not what I would say if you asked me to describe them.
When I look at my scars, I remember their stories. And I feel every last one of them. I remember sitting up all night in a hospital bed throwing up pints of blood, my head swollen to the size of a basketball, and my face throbbing.
Fast forward. I remember the empty feeling in my stomach every time I asked a girl out and was kindly rejected. My only rationale for the rejection was that my face simply was not attractive to her.1