“The strongest souls emerged from suffering; the most massive characters are scarred.” ~Khalil Gibran
I was born with spina bifida. When I was ten years old, doctors told me that after a life-changing operation, I might never walk again.
I don’t remember every word they said, but I remember the feeling, the movement of the air in the room, the adults speaking carefully, the silence that followed.
Paralysis was possible.
By then, my body was already familiar with the hospital ceiling. I went through several surgeries before I fully understood what surgery meant. By the time they were adults, that number would increase to thirteen.
I was born with VACTERL syndrome. I had one operation to remove one kidney and another to correct my bladder. I had open heart surgery and several surgeries on my bowel including a colostomy bag and repair.
But at ten years old, I knew only one thing: my body was insecure.
Four days later I got up. I was in hospital. Alone in a cold room. I felt nothing but pain. I hit the pain button and sat up. I swung my legs over the side of the bed with my hands and pushed myself off the bed with my arms.
Not because I felt strong. Not because I wasn’t afraid. But because something in me refused to accept this prediction as final.
My legs were shaking. My balance wavered. But I was standing. I felt nothing and the next thing I knew I was hitting the floor. This happened three days in a row.
On the third day, the nurse walked up to me as I was standing and said, “I’m going to call physical therapy. You’re going to walk again.” As he lifted me off the floor, I stared at a wheelchair that was no longer a dark place.
And that was the beginning of my relationship with flexibility.
Basketball has become more than a sport. This became my conversation with my body. Every drip seemed like proof. Every sprint felt like defiance. The court didn’t care about the medical cards; it only responded to effort.
Through repetition and discipline, I built strength where fear lived. I continued to play through high school and then college, not because my body wasn’t affected by the struggle, but because it adapted.
Then life tested me again.
After twelve surgeries as a young adult, scar tissue led to another. Due to the complications and the loss of six pints of blood, I fell into a coma.
When I woke up, the walk was no longer automatic. Muscles that once responded quickly felt distant. I had to relearn my balance and rebuild my strength.
Again.
There’s something humbling about teaching your body how to move twice in one lifetime.
It takes away the ego and teaches patience.
I had my moments of frustration. Moments of anger. Moments where I wished I had an easier path. I compared myself to people whose medical history didn’t follow them into every room.
But something changed in me during recovery.
I gave up. I was tired. I was over hospital rooms and meds. A friend encouraged me to eat healthier and I discovered herbs and holistic methods, yoga, rebounding and chiropractic care.
I stopped asking, “Why is my body like this?” And I started asking, “What is my body teaching me?”
He taught me that power is not loud. This is consistent.
This will show up in physical therapy if progress is slow.
Repeat small movements until they feel natural again.
She trusts her body even when it feels unfamiliar.
It taught me that healing is rarely dramatic. This is repetitive. There is silence. A thousand little decisions to keep trying.
Thirteen surgeries could have become my identity.
Instead, they became my training.
I learned that the body is not vulnerable just because it has scars. Scars are evidence of repair. They are evidence that something has been damaged and healed.
My body has been opened, stitched up, sedated and measured more times than I can count. He was judged and questioned.
And yet, it continues to move.
I no longer resent his limitations. I respect your persistence.
He survived the silence.
He survived unconsciousness.
He survived the uncertainty.
And he keeps choosing life.
I used to think that resilience meant pushing through pain at all costs. Now I understand that it means listening. It means working with your body instead of fighting it.
My body taught me discipline. He taught me faith. It taught me that rebuilding is possible even if you have to start over.
Twice.
If you’re in a season where your body feels like a burden rather than a blessing, I hope you’ll give it patience. I hope you look at your scars, whether physical or invisible, and see evidence of survival, not weakness.
Sometimes the miracle is not avoiding difficulties.
Sometimes the miracle is adapting.
And sometimes the quietest strength is simply standing again.
About Jewel Jones
Herbalist, Educator and Founder of Jewel Jones Alkaline Academywhose goal is to help others heal with plant-based nutrition and holistic practices. Drawing from her personal experience of overcoming serious health challenges, she teaches individuals how to reconnect with their bodies and restore their health naturally. Her work combines traditional herbal wisdom, spiritual insight, and practical lifestyle changes to empower communities, especially the underserved, to take control of their health.
