Open-heart surgery leaves a mark. A physical scar—a symbol of the storms endured and the battles fought. The well-known “zipper” down the chest. The chest tubes. ECMO cannulas. G-tubes. Each leaves a visible imprint, telling a story of courage, resilience, and survival.

I’ve never had open-heart surgery. I’ve never lain in an ICU with chest tubes, ECMO, or a G-tube attached to my body. Yet I have scars. They are invisible, buried deep inside, silently etched into the very core of my being. If you were to see my chest, you wouldn’t notice them. They exist, but they tell a story that only those who have walked this path can recognize—a story of grief, fear, and love intertwined.

Each jagged mark inside me is a reminder of the storms I have endured as the parent of a heart warrior. Like Levi’s zipper scar, these wounds have been ripped open time and time again, never fully healing before another challenge arises. Every moment of worry, every emergency, every time I handed my child over to a surgeon knowing they would cool their tiny body and stop their heart, left an invisible imprint on my soul.

Being a parent of a heart warrior is a role few understand. There is a unique kind of heartbreak that cannot be measured, seen, or touched. The first scar appears the moment you hear the diagnosis. Your world shifts. What once felt safe now feels fragile, uncertain, and terrifying. The knowledge that your child’s life is in danger creates a wound that cuts deep and leaves a mark you carry every day.

Then there are the scars of helplessness. The moments when you are forced to watch your child endure pain, tubes, machines, and surgeries. The hours spent in hospital corridors, the nights sleeping on uncomfortable chairs, praying your child will pull through. Every beep of a monitor, every drop in oxygen, every cry your child cannot articulate adds to the collection of invisible scars inside you.

Some scars are acute—the ones left by sudden crises. Moments when your heart feels as though it stopped, when panic grips your chest and your mind races with worst-case scenarios. These scars reopen easily, triggered by minor reminders: a cough, a hospital appointment, a faint murmur of a machine. Even years later, they ache, stubbornly persistent, reminders of fear that never fully fades.

And then, for some parents, there is the deepest scar of all—the one that will never heal. The one carved out by the loss of a child. The last breath, the final heartbeat, the moment your world shatters into pieces that may never be fully restored. That wound is both profound and silent, hidden from the eyes of the world but felt in every corner of your being.

These scars exist in parents even when the child survives. The surgeries are successful. The recovery is steady. Yet the invisible wounds remain. There is a scar from the first surgery, the first intubation, the first time your child struggled to breathe or feed. Each hospital stay, each medication adjustment, each setback leaves a mark. The scar doesn’t vanish once the child is home. It lingers, quietly, reminding you that love and worry are inseparable in the life of a heart warrior’s parent.

This is why parents of heart warriors often appear so strong, composed, and brave on the outside. It’s not because we are invincible—it’s because the depth of our wounds is invisible. You cannot see the tears shed alone in a hospital corner. You cannot measure the fear that keeps you awake at night. You cannot see the weight of carrying a child’s fragile life in your hands and heart.

Strength, in this case, is silent, quiet, and resilient. It is born from love that refuses to waver. It is the courage to continue, day after day, even when the scars ache and the heart feels heavy. The strength of a heart warrior’s parent is the ability to be present, to advocate, to fight, and to love unconditionally, even while carrying invisible wounds that never fully heal.

These scars tell a story—a story of unwavering love, relentless courage, and unbreakable hope. They speak to the unique and profound experience of being the parent of a heart warrior. While the child’s visible scars tell the story of survival, the parent’s invisible scars tell the story of the emotional battles fought alongside them.

So when you see a parent of a heart warrior, remember this: the composure, the smiles, the outward strength may be only part of the story. Inside, there are jagged, silent scars—wounds formed by fear, heartbreak, and love so deep it can scar the soul. These scars are proof not of weakness, but of a heart stretched and tested in ways most people cannot imagine. They are the marks left by storms weathered, battles fought, and the quiet, relentless courage of a parent who refuses to give up.

Invisible scars may not be seen, but they are profound. And for every parent of a heart warrior, they are a testament to love, resilience, and bravery that transcends what the eye can see