Life is a wall we build one board at a time. Each plank represents a choice, a feeling, or a reckless leap we hammer into the surface of our existence. Some nails sink satisfyingly deep. Others barely catch the grain and slip away. Over the years I’ve learned that every board I drive in leaves a scar. Though it’s a mark I can’t fully erase, it tells the story of who I was and who I’m becoming.

My relationships have always been boards I hammered in too quickly and too hard. The moment I met a new friend or potential lover, I wielded my hammer with all the force I could muster, convinced that I would make everything work, whether it was supposed to or not. I never paused to consider my own readiness. When those boards pulled free, they ripped jagged holes in my wall, reminders of attachments made without care or patience.

For a time, I treated pills like tools rather than wounds. I kept a journal, writing down every one in its own line. It was my own daily ledger of uppers and downers. Some days I ran out of page space and started doubling up entries. No judgments, only notations. As long as the pills erased the moment’s pain, they were worthy of a nail driven into my wall.

One night at a party crystallized it all. Music pulsed, neon lights spun, and everyone clustered around ecstasy pills. I sat apart with hydrocodone and a beer, caring only about numbing the raw edges inside me. I swallowed pill after pill, watching strangers glow, feeling more distant than ever. I wasn’t there to connect or celebrate. I was there to tack another board onto my wall and pretend it mattered.

When that nail went in, it held fast, securing nothing but emptiness. I left the party with a crooked plank and a pounding head, the grooves of my hammer still echoing in my skull. That night’s board stayed uneven, and the jagged hole it left taunted me for weeks.

In the aftermath, I tried to cover the damage with paint and fresh slats. But the grain beneath still showed through. The scars refused to vanish. It took time to see that these imperfections have their own texture and color; evidence of nights I gave in, of days I raced ahead unchecked. They are the cartography of my life, full of the blemished reminders of my mistakes and my survival.

Now I approach new boards with caution. I refuse most prescriptions, asking for only the bare minimum to manage my physical and mental maladies. Each time I sign a pharmacy slip, I pause and stare at my name and the drug name on the label. This delay is not because I’m having a moment of doubt. It is an act of self-respect. It reminds me how close I came to hammering myself into an unfixable place, and how precious every moment is.

In relationships, platonic or otherwise, I let boards rest in my workshop. I examine their edges, I run my hands over the grain, and I imagine how they’ll fit alongside existing planks. I measure twice, sometimes three times, before I choose the right nail. I check in with friends and write pages of reflection. I wait until I feel steady enough to secure the board without splitting it.

I’ve come to see my scars as part of my wall’s design. Light catches on their grooves, revealing patterns I never intended but have grown to appreciate. Each gouge is a testament to risk, error, and the fragile redemption that follows. I choose not to see them as places I messed up by placing an errant board, but places I grew by admitting my mistakes and deciding to face the consequences. My wall isn’t perfect; it creaks in the wind and sometimes splinters when I lean too hard, but it stands as a living archive of choices and consequences.

We all build walls. Some of us drive nails too fast, others ignore holes until the damage becomes obvious. But every plank we choose and every nail we drive shapes who we are. So, pause before you hammer. Test the wood, inspect the grain, and pick your tools with intention. Measure twice, hammer once. But if you put a board in the wrong place, just extract it and keep going. Because in the end, it’s not about who has the least scars. It’s about knowing that even when the wind is howling, your wall will stand strong.

A board with a hold in it in the foreground with a rocking chair and table blurrily in the background.