“The strongest souls emerged from misery. The biggest characters are stained with scars. ~ Khalil Gibran
I was born with a spinal cord. When I was ten, doctors told me I would never walk again after surgery that would change my life.
I do not remember every word they say, but I do remember the mood of the changing air in the adult room, speaking carefully, the calmness that ensued.
Paralysis is a possibility.
At this point, my body was familiar with the hospital ceiling. I underwent several surgeries before I fully understood the meaning of surgery. By adulthood that number will increase to thirteen.
I was born with VACTERL syndrome. I had surgery to remove my kidney and another to correct my bladder. I also had open heart surgery and several surgeries on my bowel, including getting a colostomy bag and repairing it.
But at the age of ten, I knew only one thing: my body felt uncertain.
Four days later I got up. I am in the hospital. Alone in a cold room. I could not feel anything but pain. I hit the sick button and got up. I lift my legs to the side of the bed with my hands and slide down from the bed with my hands.
Not because I feel so bad. Not because I’m not afraid. But because of something inside me, I refused to accept the prediction as an end.
My legs are shaking. My balance is fantastic. But I stood. I did not feel anything and the next thing I knew I fell on the floor. It happened three days in a row.
On the third day, the nurse approached me as I stood, and she said, “I am calling for physical therapy. You will walk again.” As she lifted me off the floor, I looked at the wheelchair, which was no longer a dark place.
And that was the beginning of my relationship with resilience.
Basketball has become more of a sport. It became my conversation with my body. Every ant feels like proof. Every run feels like resistance. The court does not care about the medical schedule. It just responds to effort.
Through repetition and discipline, I have built up strength where fear lives. I went to high school and later went to college not because my body was not affected by the struggle, but because it adapted.
Then life tested me again.
As a teenager, after 12 surgeries, the scars led to another. Due to complications and loss of blood for six cents, I fainted.
When I woke up, walking was no longer automatic. The muscles that responded so quickly felt distant, I had to learn to rebalance and rebuild my strength.
Again.
There is something humbling about teaching your body how to move twice in a lifetime.
It withdraws and teaches patience.
I had moments of frustration. Moments of anger. When I wish, I want an easier way. I compared myself to people with a history of not following them in every room.
But something changed in me during my recovery.
I gave up. I’m tired I exceeded the room and the medicine. A friend encouraged me to eat a healthier diet and I discovered herbal remedies along with yoga, recovery and chiropractic care.
I stopped asking, “Why is my body like this?” And I began to ask, “What does my body teach?”
It taught me that strength is not strong. It coincides.
It suggests physical healing when the process is slow.
It makes small movements again until they feel natural again.
It trusts your body, even if it feels unfamiliar.
It taught me that treatment is very rare. It repeats itself. It is quiet. It was a thousand small decisions to keep trying.
Thirteen surgeries can become my identity.
Instead, they became my training.
I learned that the body is not fragile because it has scars. The scar is proof of repair. They are proof that something is damaged and healed.
My body was sewn open, calmed down, and measured many times more than I could count. It is judged and doubted.
And keep moving.
I am no longer offended by its limitations. I respect its endurance.
It escaped the silence.
It escaped the unconscious.
It is free from uncertainty.
And it continues to choose life.
I used to believe that resilience meant pushing back pain at all costs. Now I understand what it means to listen. It means working with your body instead of fighting it.
My body taught me discipline. It taught me faith. It taught me that reconstruction is possible even if you have to restart.
Twice.
If you are in a season where your body feels like a burden instead of a blessing, I hope you give up. I hope you look at your physical or invisible scars and see evidence of survival, not weakness.
Sometimes miracles do not escape adversity.
Sometimes miracles are adapting.
And sometimes the quietest is just standing again.
About Jones Jewelry
Jewel Jones is a traditional healer, educator and founder of Alkaline AcademyDedicated to helping others heal through plant-based nutrition and joint practice. Drawing on personal experience in overcoming serious health challenges, she taught individuals how to reconnect with their bodies and regain their natural health. Her work combines the wisdom of traditional medicine, spiritual enlightenment, and practical lifestyle changes to empower communities, especially those in need, to take their health into their own hands.
