I have three tattoos. The first is a purple phoenix on my left shoulder blade. The second, the Elvish word for hope, at the base of my neck. The third, on my left side, over my rib cage, a quill pen made of flames, writing the phrase "I will write in words of fire" (the beginning of a poem Neil Gaiman wrote for a tattoo that he and artist David Mack designed for a fan).Â
Now, I thought long and hard before getting each of these tattoos. I've had the first one for four years, the second for two and a half, the third for ten months. There has never been a day when I regretted them. Not even when hiding them for my job proves a struggle, or when people look at me disdainfully because of them.Â
But sometimes I don't appreciate them fully, either. I don't always think about the artistry that went into them, the time - mine and my wonderful tattoo artists' - it took to bring them into being, how I cared for them while they were healing. I'm thinking about those things today.
I have had a crap week. Every challenge and stress has made me want to curl into a ball and melt in my hot apartment. But tonight, I glanced at my sports bra-clad body in the bathroom mirror, ready to berate myself for the chocolate I just binged on, ready to hate myself for my imperfect form. Instead, though, my eyes were drawn to the purples and blues etched into my skin.
I stopped. I looked at the sweeping Elvish script and remembered all of the things I had been struggling with when I decided to emblazon hope on my body. I saw the phoenix and remembered that I chose her because she would always rise from the ashes. I looked at my quill and thought about my passion for writing - the freedom and agency and control and self that I feel when I put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard. I got my tattoos to remind of who I am, what I'm capable of, and what I can overcome. Â Â Â
I've been through a lot - both before, between, and after getting my tattoos - and it helps to know that all I need to do is look in the mirror for a little pep talk.Â