Reading the Stories in My Hands

I’ll never be a hand model. All my life, I tried to hide them—thick fingers, oversized rings, nails often short and ragged. Now age spots scatter across the backs, and the skin bears the subtle crepe texture I once only noticed on my grandmother’s hands. Somehow, seeing that on her hands felt like a window into a life fully lived; now, seeing it on mine, I recognize it as part of my own story unfolding.

These hands carry memory. They held my children’s for the first time, turned soil in gardens, kneaded dough, and swept paint across canvas. Each line and mark—once a source of insecurity—feels like a map of experience, of work, of care, and of creation. I’ve come to see them not as flaws to conceal but as vessels of memory and creativity, where the artist’s voice leaves its mark through touch.

I even tried to learn to read palms—not out of superstition so much as curiosity. I wanted to see the stories written in lines and ridges, to understand the ways our hands carry both the literal and figurative weight of our lives. The more I pay attention, the more I notice: hands are not just tools; they are storytellers. They show us where we’ve been, what we’ve built, and even hint at the paths yet to come.