A Note On Owning Your Wounds

The caller ID told me my 7-year-old daughter’s school was calling – 30 minutes before school was to be let out – and my heart, of course, skipped a beat.

I thought, “Please, I pray, may this be a donation or volunteer request type of phone call. I’ll cook ten spaghetti dinners for a thousand people, ok?”  


‘Twas the school nurse (calmly) relaying to me that first and foremost my daughter was, indeed, OK – BUT, she hit her head on a pole and the bleeding was hard to stop.

Stepping into my daughter’s school – 20 minutes before the end of the day – was not how I envisioned her second week of school – but hey – kids, huh?

Come to find out my very wired kid couldn’t contain her excitement for recess and wasn’t watching where she was walking (perhaps, running, I’m going to say) and, well, BOOM – head versus pole. The pole won fair and square.

We sure as hell know that the head can be a bleeder, especially when a huge gash is upon your forehead. So, there my Little Love sat in the nurse’s office asking if we could see her brain through her one-inch head splice.

Thankfully, no my Little Love, we cannot see your brain because it split just enough, but not too much. She showed no signs of concussion and I took her home. The Hubs and I loved on her hardcore and she requested a burger, so we took her to her favorite burger joint. (Yep, heartstrings fully tugged).

As the evening waned and we went down every brain, head injury, headache, concussion, skin healing wormhole she brought up – the topic of how other kids at school would respond to her new battle wound came up.

So, we went all Gandhi-like and assured her that we all have wounds – some are visible like the one on her head, and others we carry deep inside our soul (she didn’t appreciate our esoteric bit about soul wounds, thank you very much) – and basically, to just own her story and remember that humor goes a long way.


The next morning, she was ecstatic that her brain didn’t somehow ooze out of her head and that, even overnight, healing was taking place.

I pulled up to her school drop-off and as she nervously (yet, bravely) stepped out of the vehicle — it happened:

School kid: “WOW! Hey! What happened to your head?”

Little Love: “Well, it was my head versus pole and the pole WON! So, watch where you’re running. Lesson learned.”


She started laughing, the school kid joined her in laughter, my heart sighed and they both walked into school together.

If we own our wounds then nobody gets to tell our story, but us.

And if humor helps us heal, laugh it out.

Because there’s no shame in losing a round with life if we can laugh and then keep on truckin’.

Love + Teaching Pole’s,


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