“Strong souls have emerged from suffering; The biggest characters are scarred with scars. ~ Khalil Gibran
I was born with spina bifida. When I was ten years old, doctors told me I might never walk again after surgery that would change my life.
I don’t remember every word they said, but I remember the feeling, the air in the room changing, the adults talking carefully, then the silence.
Paralysis was likely.
By then, my body already knew the hospital ceiling well. I went through multiple surgeries before I fully understood what surgery meant. By adulthood, this number will increase to thirteen.
I was born with VACTERL syndrome. I had one surgery to remove one kidney and another to correct my bladder. I had open heart surgery and multiple surgeries on my intestines, including getting a colostomy bag and repairing it.
But at ten years old, I knew only one thing: my body felt uncertain.
I stood up after four days. I was in the hospital. Alone in a cold room. I could feel nothing but pain. Pushed the pain button and sat up. I myself swung my legs over the side of the bed and pushed myself off the bed with my arms.
Not because I felt strong. Not that I wasn’t scared. But something inside me refused to accept that prophecy as final.
My legs were shaking. I lost my balance. But I stood. I felt nothing, and the next thing I knew, I hit the floor. This happened for three consecutive days.
On the third day, the nurse came up to me as I was standing, and she said, “I’m calling physical therapy. You’re going to walk again.” As he picked me up off the floor, I looked up at a wheelchair that was no longer a dark place.
And that was the beginning of my relationship with resilience.
Basketball has become more than a sport. It became my conversation with my body. Every dribble felt like proof. Each sprint felt unyielding. The court did not care about the medical charts; It only responds to effort.
Through repetition and discipline, I built strength where there was fear. I went on to play in high school and later in college, not because my body was untouched by the struggle, but because it adapted.
Then life tested me again.
As a young adult, twelve surgeries later, scar tissue led to another. I fell into a coma due to complications and losing six pints of blood.
When I woke up, walking was no longer automatic. Muscles that once responded quickly felt distant. I had to relearn balance and rebuild my strength.
again
There is something humbling about teaching your body how to move twice in one lifetime.
It removes pride and teaches patience.
I had moments of despair. A moment of anger. Moments when I want to get an easy way. I compared myself to people whose medical history doesn’t follow them into every room.
But something changed in me during recovery.
I gave up. i was tired I was in the hospital room and on medication. A friend encouraged me to eat healthier and I discovered herbalism along with holistic approaches, yoga, rebounding and chiropractic care.
I asked, “Why is my body like this?” And I began to ask, “What is my body teaching me?”
It taught me that strength is not loud. It is consistent.
Physical therapy is indicated when progress is slow.
It’s repeating small movements until they feel normal again.
Trusting your body even if it feels unfamiliar.
It taught me that healing is rarely dramatic. It’s repetitive. It’s cool. It’s a thousand small decisions to keep trying.
Thirteen surgeries could have been my identity.
Instead, they became my training.
I learned that the body is not fragile because it has scars. Evidence of scar repair. They are proof that something has been damaged and healed.
My body has been cut open, stitched up, slept on and measured more times than I can count. It has been judged and doubted.
And yet, it continues to move.
I no longer bother with its limitations. I respect its tolerance.
It has survived in silence.
He was unconscious and survived.
It survived uncertainty.
And it continues to choose life.
I used to believe that resilience meant always pushing through pain. Now I understand the meaning of listening. It means working with your body instead of fighting against it.
My body taught me discipline. It taught me faith. It taught me that rebuilding is possible, even when you have to start over.
twice
If you’re in a season where your body feels like a burden rather than a blessing, I hope you’ll give it patience. I hope you see your scars, physical or invisible, and evidence of survival, not weakness.
Sometimes miracles do not avoid suffering.
Sometimes miracles are adapted.
And sometimes, the quiet force stands again.
about Jewel Jones
Jewell Jones is an herbalist, educator and founder of Alkaline Academy, dedicated to helping others heal through plant-based nutrition and holistic practice. Drawing from personal experience of overcoming serious health challenges, she teaches individuals how to reconnect with their bodies and restore their well-being naturally. Her work blends traditional herbal knowledge, spiritual insight, and practical lifestyle changes to empower communities, especially those disadvantaged, to take their health into their own hands.
