It was just another Friday waiting room. I was scrolling through social media when a post about someone considering a tattoo in a very visible spot caught my eye. The comments section was a predictable chorus of “don’t do it!” and warnings. Suddenly, my heart started racing. Adrenaline surged, my breath became shallow, and a wave of anxiety washed over me, dredging up feelings I thought I had long processed. It was completely unexpected.
Oh my god, this was a mistake. What have I done? I’m so stupid. No one will ever take me seriously now. Why did I do this?
These thoughts spiraled, ignoring all logic. I pushed aside the fact that I genuinely loved my tattoo, that it had been met with nothing but praise in the months since I got it. I ignored the steady stream of work I had, and the heavily tattooed friends who were thriving in their careers.
None of it mattered. In that moment, my brain transported me back to my high school guidance counselor’s office in the 90s, her voice echoing warnings about visible tattoos making you look “rough” and unemployable.
Reason was out the window. Anxiety had grabbed the wheel.
I’m not sure how long the initial panic attack lasted. I just remember walking into that appointment feeling incredibly anxious but desperately trying to hide it (a skill I’ve unfortunately mastered). I was wearing a plaid shirt and, feeling a sudden wave of shame, I rolled down the cuffs as I spoke to the person I was meeting. I barely registered what they were saying, my mind consumed with trying to regain control and slow my pounding heart.
Stepping back into my car, the wave of anxiety started to recede, replaced by confusion, anger, and a sense of foolishness for overreacting to something so trivial. I said aloud, to no one in particular, “This isn’t about the damn tattoo. What is really going on?”
Deep down, I already knew. The preceding weeks had been a pressure cooker of stress. Some of it was positive stress – our eldest son, now 21, had moved out and was navigating his own path, creating space for us to welcome our daughter’s 15-year-old best friend, who had grown up in foster care, into our family. We were now a happy, bustling family of six. Wonderful changes, but changes nonetheless, layered on top of ongoing house renovations.
Then there was the less welcome stress. A dear friend was facing the unimaginable – two children battling cancer simultaneously. Another friend was struggling with a debilitating mystery illness that had stolen her health and livelihood for almost a year. One of my children was navigating mental health challenges, requiring months of advocacy to secure support. A major, career-defining project loomed, its deadline fast approaching and progress slower than I desired due to life’s relentless demands. And, of course, the everyday stresses we all juggle – the financial worries, the time crunch, the perpetually messy house, and the constant craving for more butter tarts.
(Okay, maybe that last one is a personal quirk.)
Throughout this whirlwind, I had been functioning with a composure that felt unsettling. My typical reaction to overwhelming situations – usually a healthy dose of emotion – was muted, almost absent. When friends asked, “How are you managing with everything going on?” I’d reply, “Surprisingly okay.”
But “surprisingly” should have been “worryingly.” I knew I should be feeling things more intensely, but I was actively suppressing it.
Like many, I can be my own harshest critic when it comes to emotional management. I’m quick to validate the feelings of loved ones, yet I often deny myself the same grace. Why? Because “I can’t afford to fall apart right now.” Because “others are facing far greater challenges.” Because “I’m strong; I can handle this without being overwhelmed by emotion.”
But emotions, persistent and wise, demand to be felt. And when we block direct expression, they find alternative routes, bypassing the ego and the unrealistic expectations we impose on ourselves.
My emotions, clever things, found their outlet not once, but twice, in those few days. Both times, the same disproportionate reaction to the same seemingly insignificant trigger: my tattoo. The second time it happened, I immediately recognized the pattern, pushed past the surface reaction, and connected with the deeper, more authentic feelings: worry for the people I love, anxiety about the ever-elusive work-life balance, and the immense responsibility of being the best mother I could be to four children (four kids!).
After allowing myself to feel those worries, to acknowledge the real sources of stress, I looked down at my tattooed arm and a genuine smile spread across my face.
Anxiety: acknowledged and managed. For now.
Why am I sharing this seemingly random episode of tattoo-related anxiety? Because I hope it resonates with someone else experiencing their own “it’s not about the tattoo” moment.
Because, truthfully, it rarely is about the surface trigger. It’s probably not about the ripped seam in your favorite shirt that sent you into tears after a long day, or the kitchen meltdown over burnt soup when you desperately needed comfort food, or the dust bunnies under the couch that haven’t been vacuumed in weeks.
Those small things aren’t the root cause; they are the breaking point, the visible symptom of a deeper, more complex issue.
Instead of berating ourselves for these seemingly irrational reactions, we should recognize them for what they are: our emotions finding a way to surface, urging us to pay attention. By acknowledging these triggers, we can begin to understand the underlying pressures and start to address them. That recognition, that self-awareness, is powerful.
So, here’s to your burnt soup and my visible ink. And to all of us who are both resilient and kind, even when we don’t fully realize it.
When we prioritize love and compassion, that journey must begin with ourselves.
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