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“The first time my heart broke, I thought back to the day in my childhood when a piece of glass went through my finger after an ill-fated cartwheel. I was eleven years old. My mother and I were in our bathroom cleaning up the wound. She dribbled peroxide onto the cut. It fizzed and burned; I winced at the pain. It needs to burn so you know it’s healing, she explained. That small exchange during my adolescence helped me learn to appreciate the pain pulsating from my broken heart. In spite of the severity of my wound, I knew the healing process had already begun.” — Alicia Cook
The first time my heart broke, I thought back to
the day in my childhood when a piece of glass went
through my finger after an ill-fated cartwheel.
I was eleven years old.
My mother and I were in our bathroom cleaning
up the wound. She dribbled peroxide onto the cut.
It fizzed and burned; I winced at the pain.
It needs to burn so you know it’s healing,
she explained.
That small exchange during my adolescence helped
me learn to appreciate the pain pulsating from my
broken heart. In spite of the severity of my wound,
I knew the healing process had already begun.