Trips to the emergency room were familiar. “Accidents happen” is what they say, and that’s the saying I lived by. I was a reckless child—playing often turned into an injury.

Stitches were my worst enemy. I experienced it enough. I could not endure another appearance at the E.R. But it happened…again. And it was the worst accident yet.

I remember lying on a bed in the hospital.

“You’re going to be okay, honey. You’re fine. Hang in there,” I recall my mom saying.

I’m not fine. Am I going to die? I’m going to die. This is it. I was a kid. What did I know? It was only 55 stitches on my nose. That pushed the stitches count to 85 total—all on my face. One more accident and I’d likely reach triple digits.

Stitches are my best friend. Rarely am I asked about my scars, which provides assurance that they are subtle.

Those accidents made me tougher. Would I go back and change everything if I could? Maybe be more careful? Hell no. I was a kid playing football, tag, and other games. That is what kids do. Stitches were my worst enemy, but accidents happen, and they are now my best friend. My beauty has been kept intact. And for that I’m thankful. Although the trips to the E.R. were terrifying, they made me who I am today—Jackson.