Feel the Burn

I can always spot a crisp, green cook in the kitchen.

Their wide eyes flutter at first sight of a flare-up. They flinch back in fear when the flame gets too close for comfort.

A seasoned chef is immune to this sizzling heat. But the newborn skin of a new cook has yet to be scalded by the rage of a piping hot pan.

As a chef, you’re too busy pushing out plates to worry about a little sear of scorched flesh. The flames pressure you, scream at you, telling you to hurry up.

You’d rather brand your arm than burn a dish.

Scars tattoo your limbs as a sign of endurance.

It’s proof you're immune to any sting that slows you down.

I’ve been burned too many times over the years.

It's how I built my thick skin.

In the kitchen, as in life, many moments char our sense of self. Leaving us to tend to the leftover scars remaining long after the moments served their purpose.

I've learned to push past it, to endure, and never let anyone see me sweat. An attempt to look strong, unbreakable. Or maybe it's just in fear of the fiery inferno of confrontation.

Let it go.

Ignore the stabbing insult or the bite of a backhanded comment.

Push down the grieve the everyday losses.

Better to avoid the pain instead of immediately dressing the wound it inflicted.

It gets rationalized away with the benefit of the doubt.

It was harmless, no big deal. It could have been worse.

Tell myself to move on. Without realizing moving on isn't the same as moving forward.

Blaming myself and turning the hurt inward in fear of stirring the pot. It only festers inside, like an untreated sore, until it becomes infected. The self-destructive threats attacking the sensitive tissues of my being.

Finally, the feeling is so inflamed it can no longer be ignored. It oozes out of every crack, spewing anger and resentment onto the world.

A slight jab goes unnoticed in the heat of the moment.

It waits until the adrenaline wears off for the suffering to begin.

Often, I get home with a stinging itch on my arm. It’s a slight annoyance, but I don’t think much and immediately try to relieve it. I furiously scratch the irritation gnawing at my forearm, thinking it’s just dry skin.

Underneath the surface, a minor burn from some earlier occurrence. Attempt for relief only rips it apart, turning into a gaping, bloody mess that will take weeks to heal.

Sensitive to the slightest touch. Now, it leaves a much bigger, deeper scar than the original mark.

It’s impossible to remember how it exactly happened.

I can’t imagine when or what I was doing when I caused this harm.

It’s impossible to learn the lesson when the context is unknown.

I'm so good at ignoring when a minor dig becomes a dagger.

I roll with the punches and take heat for more than I should. Every time, I find myself feeling like day-old burnt toast.

I take on more and more pretending to be the hero who can handle the heaviest load. Eventually, the burden makes me break down, and I start blaming anything and everyone that comes in my path.

Bumps and bruises get pushed aside, becoming the blemishes we desperately try to conceal.

We are experts at ignoring the pain. We disguise the hurt and brush off trauma as minor events believing its impact is dealt with and done.

It doesn’t make it go away. It only buries it deep within, waiting for us to scratch the itch that brings it back to life.

When not treated at the source, the only witness is a cloudy memory. Our perception of reality, trying to piece together the root cause. The longer it goes avoided, the fuzzier the reminders become, skewing our recollection of what really went down.

Let the pain breathe while it’s still fresh.

Grief happens. Any trauma, loss, or struggle no matter how big or small has the right to be acknowledged and let go of.

You don’t have to endure unwanted hurt. It’s possible, yet difficult, to recognize and address the wound while it’s still fresh.

Remove it from the heat and escape the throbbing tension and emotion.

The heat of the moment is rarely the best time for me to dive deep into feelings. My natural tendency usually means to let it be bottled up inside. Slowly, building resentment that becomes ready to attack.

Instead, I pull myself out of the fire burning within.

Cool off.

Compose myself, so I can calmly assess what exactly made the pain so harmful.

I let the hurt breathe outward instead of drowning it inside. Express how an innocent act or uneventful loss torched a part of my spirit.

Be the healer instead of the victim. Let the pain escape instead of staying trapped. It’s not about who to blame for igniting the blaze but about treating the wound resulting from the fire.

Try being mad at a saucepan for burning you. It won’t get you very far.

Trust me; I’ve tried.