“Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars.” ~Khalil Gibran
I was born with spina bifida. When I was ten years old, doctors told me I might not walk again after a surgery that would change my life.
I don’t remember every word they said, but I remember the feeling, the air shifting in the room, the adults speaking carefully, the quiet that followed.
Paralysis was a possibility.
By that point, my body already knew hospital ceilings well. I had been through multiple surgeries before I fully understood what surgery meant. By adulthood, that number would grow to thirteen.
I was born with VACTERL syndrome. I had a surgery to remove a kidney and another to correct my bladder. I also underwent open heart surgery and multiple surgeries on my bowels, including receiving a colostomy bag and having it repaired.
But at ten years old, I only knew one thing: my body felt uncertain.
Four days later, I stood up. I was in the hospital. Alone in a cold room. I couldn’t feel anything but pain. I pressed the pain button and sat up. I manually swung my legs to the side of the bed and pushed off the bed with my arms.
Not because I felt strong. Not because I wasn’t afraid. But because something inside me refused to accept that prediction as final.
My legs trembled. My balance wavered. But I stood. I didn’t feel anything, and the next thing I knew, I hit the floor. This happened three days in a row.
On the third day, the nurse walked in on me as I stood, and she said, “I’m calling physical therapy. You are going to walk again.” As she picked me up off the floor, I stared at a wheelchair that was no longer a dark place.
And that was the beginning of my relationship with resilience.
Basketball became more than a sport. It became my conversation with my body. Every dribble felt like proof. Every sprint felt like defiance. The court didn’t care about medical charts; it only responded to effort.
Through repetition and discipline, I built strength where fear had lived. I went on to play in high school and later in college, not because my body was untouched by struggle, but because it adapted.
Then life tested me again.
As a young adult, after twelve surgeries, scar tissue led to another. Due to complications and losing six pints of blood, I fell into a coma.
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’s something humbling about teaching your body how to move twice in one lifetime.
It strips away ego and teaches patience.
I had moments of frustration. Moments of anger. Moments when I wished I’d had an easier path. I compared myself to people whose medical history didn’t follow them into every room.
But something shifted in me during recovery.
I gave up. I was tired. I was over the hospital rooms and medications. A friend encouraged me to eat healthier, and I discovered herbalism, along with holistic modalities, yoga, rebounding, and chiropractic care.
I stopped asking, “Why is my body like this?” And I started asking, “What is my body teaching me?”
It taught me that strength is not loud. It’s consistent.
It’s showing up to physical therapy when progress is slow.
It’s repeating small movements until they feel natural again.
It’s trusting your body even when it feels unfamiliar.
It taught me that healing is rarely dramatic. It’s repetitive. It’s quiet. It’s a thousand small decisions to keep trying.
Thirteen surgeries could have become my identity.
Instead, they became my training.
I learned that the body is not fragile simply because it has scars. Scars are evidence of repair. They are proof that something was damaged and healed.
My body has been opened, stitched, sedated, and measured more times than I can count. It has been judged and doubted.
And yet, it continues to move.
I no longer resent its limitations. I respect its endurance.
It has survived stillness.
It has survived unconsciousness.
It has survived uncertainty.
And it keeps choosing life.
I used to believe resilience meant pushing through pain at all costs. Now I understand it means listening. It means working with your body instead of fighting against it.
My body has taught me discipline. It has taught me faith. It has taught me that rebuilding is possible, even when you have to start over.
Twice.
If you are in a season where your body feels like a burden instead of a blessing, I hope you give it patience. I hope you look at your scars, physical or invisible, and see evidence of survival, not weakness.
Sometimes the miracle is not avoiding hardship.
Sometimes the miracle is adapting.
And sometimes, the quietest strength is simply standing again.
About Jewel Jones
Jewel Jones is an herbalist, educator, and founder of Alkaline Academy, dedicated to helping others heal through plant-based nutrition and holistic practices. Drawing from personal experience overcoming serious health challenges, she teaches individuals how to reconnect with their bodies and reclaim their wellness naturally. Her work blends traditional herbal wisdom, spiritual insight, and practical lifestyle changes to empower communities, especially those underserved, to take their health into their own hands.
