I hate my scars. That's right, I hate them. I have three scars on my stomach. They're not exactly small, they're still red, and I hate them. You might be wondering why I hate them. It's not because I'm bitter or because I don't like blemishes. I have a different reason for hating them.

I hate them because they remind me of my time in the hospital. I spent a week in the hospital when I had my appendix taken out, and it was certainly one of the worst weeks of my life, if not the worst. I spent a week hooked up to an IV, with antibiotics and fluids being pumped into me the whole time. I couldn't move around comfortably or sleep well until I got home from the hospital.

You might be thinking, "Danielle, this is kind of silly, isn't it? They're scars, they'll go away." And I know that. Of course I know that. But for right now, I'm a little upset about them. They're not fun to look at every morning. I hate the constant reminder of my terrible week in the hospital.

But I am grateful for them. Those three scars are a sign of being alive. I survived through my whole ordeal. And that's amazing for many people. We all have scars - mental and physical - and the fact that we even have them means that we survived. We made it. We got through whatever struggle we encountered. We are strong, and we are better for it.

So sure, I'm grateful for them, but I still hate them.