Learning confidence and friendship the hard way

by Rebecca Stewart

Doorframes are just so ordinary. We daily walk through them but never give them much thought.

Well, almost never.

I gathered with my friends on this Saturday night, as I often did, in the head resident’s apartment in Dana Hall. As the clock moved from midnight to 1 a.m., and to the end of weekend visitation hours, our numbers dwindled until there were just three of us still watching the same football highlights over and over again —Jon, Will and me.

When I noticed the time at 2 a.m., I knew I had overstayed my welcome. I quickly grabbed my purse and hurried out the door—or tried to.

BAM!

I had walked through that doorframe countless times. Yet I stood there stunned with pain and shamed with embarrassment. Jon and Will had just witnessed my clumsiness.

With my hand to my face in a failed attempt to take away the pain, I quickly said, “Goodbye,” and tried to rush away from the entire situation.

The boys were shocked. I heard them whispering, “What just happened?” and, “Do you think she is okay?” as I turned to leave.

An accident? Or pre-ordained?

They called out to me as I slowly moved my hand and realized that it was stained red. But they came to their senses soon enough to console me and assure that I was all right.

They jumped into action before I even began to piece together the last several seconds. Will grabbed wet paper towels and began cleaning my wound. Jon grabbed his phone to arrange to take me to the emergency room.

By the time I left their care 30 minutes later, I was already questioning the inevitable implications of this accident. What would people think? What would they say? Would my face ever be the same?

New Insecurities

My questions were soon answered.

The days that followed proved more painful and alarming than the moment I slammed into that doorframe. People could not look away, and they did not what to do or what to say.

Yet, my friends found their own ways to encourage me, never at a loss for the right words or a gentle joke. I came to hate the story of a young wizard named Harry Potter, a boy who was also plagued with a scar on his forehead.

 While the cut above and between my eyes soon healed, leaving a only fine line where a bloody mess once had been, and though the comments soon subsided, the scars of insecurity I wrestle with even today.

My face will never look quite the same, my imperfections and flaws displayed for all to see. This used to terrify me. And yet I have found comfort in this transformation. The pressure is off. Not only is my face forever changed, so is the way I see myself and the world around me.

This doorframe did not just leave an impression on my face, but also on my heart and mind.

Through this painful and embarrassing experience, I learned of the unconditional love and acceptance of a community. I learned that a scratch on my face could not scar my friends’ perception of me or even my own. I learned that it is natural to be vain, but much more difficult to be safe and secure in your identity.

The forgotten and under-appreciated things can leave an unforgettable, irreplaceable mark, and for me these physical and emotional impressions changed me for the better. Perhaps it took a blow to the face to wake me up to this beauty of the ordinary.