Wounds are a consequence of survival. We collect scars, those souvenirs you never lose, simply by living.

A normal reaction is to hide your scars and wounds away. You might do this if they feel shameful or ugly. Or if they are evidence of a trauma that left you shattered. Or if you fear someone learning your trauma and targeting it to do you harm (again). These are valid concerns: bad actors (and clumsy friends) do exist, and privacy can be protective.

Anyone over thirty is a metaphorical quilt of scars. It makes us compelling people but often inscrutable and tricky to romance. Seeing the damage may have you reaching for the hand sanitiser… Resist! It stings like hell!

Instead, bring balm. Make it for yourself out of compassion, self-acceptance, and soft lavender. Scoop it in your palms and apply lovingly and generously. Sooth your new wounds and old scars alike, listen to their shapes with forgiveness. Let them go with gentleness.

It is a massage for the heart.