There were times in my life when I thought one painful chapter would become my whole story. I was diagnosed with PCOS, and for a long time I felt uncomfortable in my own skin - unable to accept the changes in my body, constantly searching for a sense of control. No matter how hard I tried, I thought I would never see past all the "bad".

What I was carrying began to shape the way I saw myself, the way I treated my body, and the battles I fought when no one else was watching. There were moments when hurting or changing myself felt like it would make me worthy again.

Over time, I've learned to see my body with more compassion, and to understand that the hardest parts of my story are chapters, not who I am.

My grandmother carries a scar from heart surgery. As a child I knew it was there without knowing what it meant - it was just part of her, like her hands or her voice. It was only later that I understood what she had gone through to still be here.

So I made her a candle in her own shape, with the scar exactly as it is. Not hidden, not smoothed over. I finished it in 23-karat gold leaf. The gold is for her. For the woman she became on the other side of that surgery, who is still here, and who has carried more than she has ever said.

Her reaction when receiving it was one I will never forget. I have made hundreds of candles since, and I still measure them against that moment - the quiet of someone recognising herself.

For years, I knew something wasn’t quite right with my body, but I couldn’t work out what. There were the frustrating GP appointments, the never-ending hormonal treatments and a lot of time spent trying to understand what was happening to me. Through all of it, my friends have been there, seeing me through more hormonal states than I’d like to admit and always giving me the grace to not always have it together. They never once made me feel like I was imagining it.

Eventually, after seven years, I had a diagnostic surgery and found out I had endometriosis. It didn’t fix everything, but finally knowing what was going on gave me some peace of mind, and a little clarity.

My friends gave me this candle after my surgery. Now, every time I look at it in my room, I think of them and everything they’ve done for me along the way. I may not have had the answers for a long time, but I was never alone in looking for them. And I’ll always be grateful for that.

I used to think healing meant getting back to who I was before.

Before the fear. Before surgery. Before the scars.

But choosing a preventative double mastectomy and aesthetic flat closure taught me that sometimes healing isn’t about going backward. Sometimes it asks you to become someone entirely new. I had to unlearn so much of what I had been taught about femininity, beauty, and what a woman’s body is “supposed” to look like. I had to learn that losing my breasts did not make me less feminine, less beautiful, or less whole. My scars weren’t evidence that something had been taken from me. They became evidence that I chose myself.

There is a strange kind of freedom in realizing you do not owe the world the version of you it finds easiest to understand. Today, I don’t hide my flat chest or my scars. I let them exist loudly, softly, beautifully, imperfectly. Not because every day has been easy, but because this body carried me through becoming. And somewhere along the way, I stopped trying to return to the woman I was before and started falling in love with the woman I became.

I was born needing an emergency operation, which meant my scar was made differently from how it normally would have been. Instead of sitting below my bikini line, I have a large diagonal scar across my stomach.

Growing up, I often wondered how different I would feel if my scar looked different. Would I be more confident? Would I feel more comfortable showing my body?

Sometimes I still wonder.

But I’ve learned that my scar is part of my story. It doesn’t make me less beautiful, less feminine, or less worthy of feeling confident in my own skin.

I’m proud of it now. It reminds me that my body has carried me through something before I was even old enough to understand it.

So if you have a scar you struggle with, please know you’re not alone. You don’t have to love it every day, but you don’t have to hide it either.

Your scars don’t take away from your beauty.

They are proof of your story - and your story is worth being proud of.

There was a time when I was told I might never be able to have children. After experiencing a miscarriage, the possibility of becoming a mother felt even more precious and uncertain.

Then I became pregnant. I wasn’t able to give birth naturally, but my body still did something extraordinary. Through caesarean births, I brought three beautiful babies into this world: my daughter and my twin sons.

I have never looked at my caesarean scar as something to hide. To me, it is a badge of honour. It is a permanent reminder of three lives I carried, three children I was once afraid I might never have, and of just how remarkable a woman’s body can be.

That scar is part of my story. It reminds me of loss, but it doesn't represent loss. It represents what came afterwards: life.

When I see it, I don't see an imperfection. I see the place where my children entered the world. I see strength, gratitude and motherhood written into my skin. I am incredibly grateful it is there.