Healed Wombs Leave Scars

Some scars carry pain, others carry joy. I’ve learned to live with both.

I’ll never forget September 9, 2004 — the day I had gastric bypass surgery. At 5’2 and 299 lbs, I laid in that hospital bed scared but also ready. Honestly, at that point I didn’t care if I lived or died because I was so unhappy inside. To make it even more emotional, it was my mama’s birthday, and I remember giving her a letter  telling her, “If I don’t make it, just know how unhappy I’ve been.” That’s how heavy life felt at that moment.

When I woke up, I looked at those tiny laparoscopic scars — just a few little circles — and thought, wow, this is it, the start of something new. The weight fell off so quickly that I didn’t even know who I was anymore. I remember going shopping and heading straight to the plus-size section out of habit, only to realize I no longer belonged there. I had to leave my comfort zone and walk over to the juniors section. Do you know how strange that felt? It was like my body had changed faster than my mind could keep up. That in itself was another scar — learning how to adjust to the new me.

But my story with scars didn’t stop there. Years later, I had a blockage that almost took me out. Only my Daddy and my kids had keys to my house back then, and one day Daddy came by planning to surprise me by painting my garage. Instead, he walked in and found me lying on the floor whispering “help.” He laid his hands on my stomach and started praying, and I had to shout, “Daddy, that hurts!”  Next thing I knew, I was rushed to one hospital, then transferred to Vandy because it was so severe. When I woke up, I had another scar — one I hadn’t planned for, one I didn’t want, but one that said loud and clear: you’re still here.

By 2010, I had skin removal surgery, a tummy tuck to deal with all the excess from the weight loss. Another scar. At one point, I worried if men would look at me differently with all these marks across my body. But let me just say this — that was never a problem. 

Now here’s the thing — my scars don’t hurt anymore. They don’t itch or burn or bother me. They sit quietly, reminding me of every single time God stepped in and kept me alive. Silent witnesses of survival.

And then there are the scars you can’t see. The ones love left behind. Whew. If I’m being real, love has left me with marks that cut just as deep as any surgery. Times I was brokenhearted, and even times I was the one who broke someone else’s heart. Loving deeply has been both my gift and my downfall. When I thought I had found forever and it ended, it shook me. But it also taught me forgiveness. It taught me to look at love differently, to stop pointing fingers and admit that BrandiJ wasn’t perfect either. Counseling helped me see that. At first it was easy to say, “It’s them, not me.” But eventually, I had to face myself too.

Now, those emotional scars don’t sit on me as pain anymore. They sit on me as proof of strength. Proof that I can take accountability, forgive, and still love again. Proof that I can listen, try to understand someone else’s point of view, and still hold true to my own boundaries. Emotional scars may not be visible, but they’re just as real as the ones across my stomach.

And you know what ties it all together? Healing. Whether it was physical or emotional, every scar went through a process. At first, the wound was raw. It stung. It felt like I’d never be whole again. But with time, those wounds closed. They became healed memories. The pain softened, and what was left was a story written on my skin and my soul.

If I’m honest, heartbreak has always taken longer to heal than surgeries. Surgeries, the body eventually recovers from. But heartbreak? Watching someone you love move on, grieving not just them but the dream of what could have been — that’s a different kind of cut. That one lingers.

But every scar, inside and out, has taught me one thing: I’m strong, and my comeback doesn’t play any games.  I’m a survivor. God has been so good to me, and I carry the proof right on my skin and in my heart.

Healed wombs leave scars. Some painful, some beautiful. Some nearly broke me, and some rebuilt me. But none of them define me as broken. They define me as alive. They define me as whole. And every single one reminds me that no matter what, I’m still standing. 

So whether it’s the line across your stomach or the crack across your heart, wear it. Own it. Because healed wombs leave scars, and those scars… they mean you lived.

— BrandiJ