“You’re going to regret that when you get older.” We all heard those words growing up when old timers would come around and interrupt our grand plans with their wrinkled faces and limping gaits. We ignored them, of course, but as the years wore on, and our own faces started to show the signs of wear we once attributed to our parents, and our own strides began to suffer under the weight of decades of injury… most of us come to a crushing realization: they were right all along.

“You’re going to regret that when you get older,” we now say as we come across young bucks sacrificing their knees, lower backs, and other joints in the name of adventure or accomplishment. They roll their eyes too, just as we did, and go about their warrior ways. If you’re anything like me, you’re tempted to shake your head, to dismiss their foolishness as naïveté and ignorance… but then you look back on your own mistakes, your own injuries, and through the objective lens of hindsight, I can now tell you unequivocally, I don’t regret a damn one.

Yup, I’ve had more concussions than most of the football players you see on TV. Yeah, I’ve been under the knife more times than a forty year old actress trying to stay twenty forever. Yes, on cold mornings, hell even on some warm ones, my cocky Marine strut gives way to a slow, lumbering limp moving to beat of popcorn popping joints and the occasional muttered swear.

I don’t know how many stitches I’ve gotten. Shit, I’m not even sure how many stitches I’ve gotten in my face. Torn ligaments, broken bones, metal plates, screws and parts donated out of cadavers… my body has slowly transformed into a Frankenstein of pain and pride. The scars couldn’t ruin a modeling career my face never deserved in the first place, but each one represents a hard fought victory, or a hard earned lesson. That limp that plagues my mornings isn’t just a reminder of how I’ve been hurt, it’s a reminder how how hard I’ve fought.

I have a veritable collection of pictures of me looking bummed out in front of images of my insides.

I once broke a kid’s femur during a rugby game. The sound it made was awful – like a tree branch cracking – and although there are no injury time outs in club Rugby, everyone on the field stopped what they were doing and watched that poor kid from some rival school writhe independently of his leg… as he twisted and turned, it stayed put, like all that was left holding it on was the skin.

I’m not proud of hurting that guy. I don’t take pleasure in ending a career… but I’d be willing to bet that today, wherever he is, he wears the scars he earned in the subsequent surgeries with the same pride I attribute to my own. Being a rugby player in the States means having a passion for the competition, for the game, for the violence. You’re not going to get in the newspaper playing rugby, it’s not going to impress the girls at the local community college. There’s no acclaim in playing a sport most of the country doesn’t understand… there’s just your team, your stories, and your pride.