There was a moment today. A very brief moment my friends showed scars from healed wounds. We were all there and we knew of those bad times. We knew how bad it was. Yet, when I saw the scars, it made me cry.

We were sharing favourite songs. I told my friends, I cried at work reading those lyrics. The random colleague across from me must be thinking I broke up or something. They laughed. And laughed more at the picture I took of me blubbing away.

Donald Justice has a poem about being 40 and I like to quote that at each birthday. Younger, I read in it regret, of aging, of responsibilities. Older, I see the suggestion of looking forward to something bigger than ourselves. Scars are the rooms that we leave behind to experience something else.