Stretch marks are signs of some kind of growth happening—evidence
that something beneath the surface expanded too quickly for the skin to keep
up. They’re raw, real, often uninvited, but always honest. And that’s precisely
why they make the perfect metaphor for the way life stretches our hearts.
The “stretch marks” of life are the emotional remnants of
growth—the moments and relationships that pull us beyond our comfort zones,
that crack us open, that make us more. They come from loving hard,
grieving deeply, risking vulnerability, and choosing presence and “with-ness.”
Through these experiences, our hearts have the opportunity
to stretch. And like skin, it doesn’t always snap back the same. It stays
marked, a little looser in places, maybe even tender. But those marks are a
testament. They say: You lived. You risked for love. You were brave.
You let life in.
The alternative is a heart that shrinks back or stays the
same size—unmoved, untouched, protected, perhaps, but never changed. A heart
without stretch marks hasn’t been asked to hold the fullness of life. And isn’t
that the real tragedy?
So when Andrea Gibson brilliantly says, “I want my
heart to be covered in stretch marks,” it’s a declaration of openness.
A refusal to shrink. A commitment to feeling everything—the ecstasy, the ache,
the wild, unscripted messy middle.
It’s a way of saying: I came here to grow.
I’m all in.

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