A Skip in My Record

We live our lives like a beautiful vinyl record. The songs we create and play speak to who we are — what we have done, seen, and experienced — each one unique to a moment, unique to ourselves.

For years, I likened “healing” the broken parts of me to polishing my record. I tried to buffer out the scratches, remove the places that were wounded, damaged, imperfect.

Each time I found myself back in pain, I felt ashamed. Angry at myself for not having fixed it yet.

And then one day, it came to me.

There is a scratch in my record that will never be buffed away, no matter how hard I try.

There are wounds I carry that cannot fully heal and disappear. Wounds that have carved themselves into who I am. Wounds that will always remain — a scratch that became a skip in my record.

What if that’s okay?

What if I stop trying to erase the scratch and instead remember the song that plays before it... and after it?

It seems to me that we aren’t allowed to admit our skips. We are taught to keep them hidden away until we “heal” them. As though having a skip somehow makes the song unworthy of being played.

So we silence it.

Pretend it doesn’t exist.

Pretend it isn’t part of our record.

But the song is always there. The song is always a part of us.

And if we refuse to play it because of the scratch, is our record ever truly whole?

Are we?

What would it look like if we accepted it?

I come from the generation of vinyl, and I never stopped playing a record just because it skipped. I played it loud and proud anyway. Over and over. I knew where the scratch was. I knew the skip would come.

I didn’t care.

I knew I would get through it and continue listening to the song.

Sometimes the skip was brief and barely noticeable.

Sometimes it caught long enough that I had to stomp my foot on the floor to push past it.

Sometimes the stomp wasn’t enough, so I had to jump.

Other times, I had to get up, walk across the room, and give the record player a little hip check.

And every once in a while, that damn skip forced me to lift the needle and gently move it forward myself.

But I never stopped listening.

There is a scratch in my record.

And as the song of my life continues to play, I will inevitably reach that place and hit my skip again. Sometimes I’ll move past it quietly, and no one will notice. Sometimes I’ll get stuck for a while and need a stomp, a jump, or a hip check to keep going.

Sometimes the skip will last far longer than I want it to.

That’s okay.

It is only one part of my record — not the whole album.

I’m tired of trying not to play that song.

It’s time to play my entire record. Loud and proud.

Embrace your scratches. Love your skips. Live loud and proud.

Marcie