The other day I looked down at my arm to see one of my scars. It’s a round, deep scar, about the size of a cigarette butt. Because that’s what it’s from.

It was 2004. I was fresh out of college and ready to PARTY. I was working at the coolest boutique in town, slinging whisky at the best bar in town, and my band was opening for the likes of Blondie.

I thought I was prittty damn cool.

And so when my friend said…”Hey! Let’s go to a Motley Crue show!” It seemed like the perfect plan.

I wanted to practice my new “networking” skills which included befriending all the coolest guys in bands, and getting backstage wherever me and my friends went.

We pre-partied in the car in the parking lot of the show. And by the time we even got to our seats, we were all drunk.

Me an E. One sip away from our scars.

And in our drunken stupor something ridiculous happened.

My friend E wanted to tell me something in my ear. She forgot that at the time she had a cigarette in her hand. So when she went to tell me, she burned my ear with her cigarette.

To which I responded with grabbing it from her hand and putting it out on her arm. (These are drunk games…I don’t recommend them.)

Immediately, I realized what I had done and felt horrible. My pain and anger led me to completely irrational behavior. And so I took it even further and said “shit…I’m so sorry…here…you can do it to me, so we’re even.”

And so she did. She put out her cigarette on my arm.

It bubbled and eventually burst into the perfect round scar I now have on the inside of my forearm.

Ten years later and I can still remember it like it was yesterday.

And everytime I see it, I giggle. And I remember. My friends, that show, how I felt back then, what happened after.

It has almost become a mile marker for my life.

Now, I don’t recommend getting scars on purpose, but thinking about all this reminded me that we are all so unique. So interesting. With our own specific stories and experiences.

Our scars tell our stories. Remind us of the people we once were. (TWEET THIS)

This goes the same for physical scars we can see, and hidden scars, like our broken hearts, our experiences growing up, that one time that your dad forgot to pick you up from kindergarten and you found yourself crying while walking down the streets of your city, all alone, not knowing where you live, until a police officer found you and eventually took you home.

We get to see our scars, look at them, remember what happened, and then decide. Choose who we want to be now. Look at how far we’ve come. Realize that it’s only a scar. We can choose to still be that person who got the scar, or we can choose to be someone else.

And this is a Wildheart life. Choice. Consciousness. About who we are, where we’ve been, and where we want to go from here.

Although I DO still go to Motley Crue shows, there is very little pre-partying these days, and I’m fairly certain I’ll never have another cigarette scar in this way.

I choose to do it differently now. But it sure was a hell of a lot of fun back then.

So for now…I get to look at it and giggle at the experiences I’ve had. My scars tell my story and so do yours. What do yours say about you?

As always, I love to hear from you. Leave your own/most favorite/most interesting scar story in the comments below. XO, Sally P.s. Here are some of my favorite “scar” stories: 1) Scar on my foot from roller derby 2) Scar on my lip and belly button from piercings 3) Scar on the back of my calf from searching for wild sage in the riverbanks of the Madison River in Montana.