Broken Beautiful Ink

Part of my memoir

The Hospital

I don’t remember the first hospital in order.

What I remember are pieces.

I remember the room.

There was a big window and a TV mounted across from the bed. Next to me was a whiteboard where the nurses wrote things.

And the pain chart.

The one with the faces — from the smiling face with no pain to the crying one that meant the worst pain.

They asked me to point to the face that matched how I felt.

I remember the room always feeling cold. Not just the temperature. The whole place felt that way.

I remember family visiting.

It felt strange.

Before the accident, I barely spoke to most of them. I lived in Florida and they lived in Kentucky. Our lives didn’t overlap much.

But suddenly they were there, standing around my hospital bed.

I didn’t really know what to say to them.

I remember wanting my mom to know I was there and that I was okay.

She was in the same hospital, just on another floor.

A nurse told me I could write her a note and she would take it to her.

So I did.

I don’t remember what I wrote.

I just remember needing her to know.

A lot of firefighters came to visit during the first week I was there.

They brought stuffed animals.

So many that we started putting them on the extra bed in my hospital room until the whole bed was covered in them.

There was one firefighter in particular who came more often than the others. I wish I knew his name now.

He came to check on my progress, and sometimes his wife came too. They always brought something with them.

He told me they had never seen such a big smile on such a small girl with such a devastating injury.

He said my strength was something he would always remember.

Looking back, it was probably shock.

But at the time, I just remember him being kind.

People also came in to help keep the kids busy. I learned later it was called Child Life. They brought games, movies, and coloring activities.

I remember doing some of those.

I remember the smell of the hospital too. It’s hard to describe, but if you’ve ever been in one, you know it.

The sharp smell of rubbing alcohol was the strongest.

I remember the ceiling lights.

Over and over again, watching them pass above me as they rolled my bed down the hallway for another test, another procedure, another X-ray.

I couldn’t get out of bed because of my injuries.

My whole world was that bed for a while.

I also remember my hair.

It was long then, all the way down to my hips.

No one brushed it for at least a week after the accident. At first it was just tangled. Then it started itching.

When they finally tried to brush it, it hurt. The knots had tightened so badly that every pull felt like they were taking hair with it.

It took two days just to start untangling it.

That’s when they realized I had lice.

I remember the smell of the treatment and the tiny comb they used afterward, going through my hair again and again.

By the end of that week I wished I had no hair at all.

I will not apologize
for not becoming what they need,
for turning my heart inside out,
for speaking honestly.
I will not barter with judgment
I will not bow to apathy
I forgive but refuse
to allow my history
to continue destroying
what beauty lies in me

I will not live
(or write)
to please

A. Shea

Old me never said no because I was terrified of disappointing someone.
I lived bracing for impact — always waiting for something bad to happen.

I took care of everyone but myself.
My body screamed, you’re broken.
My mind felt lost… numb… disconnected.

I was confident in one thing — and even that felt like it was all I had.
I craved validation. Acceptance.
I let the people closest to me shape who I thought I had to be.

I never felt truly safe.
I never felt stable.

But that isn’t who I am anymore.

Now I say no — gently, but firmly.
I wake up without waiting for disaster.
I still help people, but I don’t abandon myself to do it.

I’m not broken. I’m healing.
I’m not lost. I’m learning.

If someone doesn’t like me, I let them walk.
I’m not molding myself for anyone anymore.
I’m finding pieces of myself I didn’t know were still there.

For the first time in my life,
my feet feel like they’ve touched the ground —
and I’m learning how to stand.

— Christina L | Broken Beautiful In

✨ The Night My Masks Fell

by Christina L | Broken Beautiful Ink

I was tired of holding myself together,
tired of pretending I didn’t need help,
tired of wearing the masks
that kept me alive,
but also kept me hidden.

The night everything cracked open
wasn’t gentle.
It wasn’t pretty.
It wasn’t planned.

For once, I couldn’t pretend.
I couldn’t fake strong.
I couldn’t hold the world on my shoulders
one more minute.

And somehow—
in the middle of breaking—
I met someone who didn’t turn away.

Someone who didn’t want the polished version,
the warrior version,
the stitched-together version.

He saw the real me—
unmasked, exhausted, honest—
and he stayed.

I used to think that night ruined me.
Now I know it revealed me.
The beginning disguised itself as the end,
and I walked into a life
I never expected.

— Christina L | Broken Beautiful Ink

Don’t Fix Me

Don’t fix me.
I’m not broken.
I’m bent in places where life hit hardest,
but I’ve never stopped holding myself together.

I don’t need a hero.
I need a witness.
Someone who sees that my path may change,
but I’ll still walk it with fire in my chest.

My body carries stories,
stitched in scar and bone.
And if one day I move through the world on wheels,
know this—
it doesn’t make me weaker.
It makes me relentless.
It makes me still moving.

And if you love me—
love the whole of me.
Not the “before,”
not the “after,”
but the now.

Because I’m not asking to be saved.
Just seen.
Just loved.
Just here.

— Christina Loar | Broken Beautiful Ink

✨ Not a poem today — just a little nostalgia. If you recognize these, we’re probably kindred spirits. Drop your birth year below 👇 Let’s see who grew up in the same chaos and magic.