I know my face shocks people.
I see it in the way their eyes widen, in the way they hesitate before touching me, and in the way some turn away before I can even take one small step toward them.
But I was not born like this.
My nose was damaged after months of untreated infection. At first, it was only a small wound. Then it became swollen, painful, and difficult to breathe through. I scratched because it burned, but that only made it worse.
No one took me to a doctor.
No one cleaned the blood from my face.
Instead, I was pushed outside whenever I cried.
By the time rescuers found me, part of my nose had collapsed. I was hungry, feverish, and too weak to stand for long. Every breath hurt, yet the fear in my chest hurt even more.
At the clinic, people gathered around me.
I trembled because I thought they would recoil too.
Then one nurse placed both hands around my face.
She did not look disgusted.
She did not pull away.
She whispered, “You’re still beautiful.”
That was when I stopped fighting her touch.
The doctors could not give me back the face I once had, but they treated the infection, eased my pain, and helped me breathe again. For the first time in months, I slept without waking up gasping.
I still look different.
Some people may always stare.
But now, when someone steps close, I no longer lower my head immediately. I am learning that not every hand comes to push me away.
My face carries the damage of everything I survived.
My heart carries something else.
Hope.
So please do not look at me and see something frightening.
Look again.
Behind this wounded face is a small, scared dog who never wanted pity.
I only wanted someone to stay.
