Before reaching adulthood, the idea of getting a tattoo was constantly on my mind. I remember telling my mother, with all the teenage seriousness I could muster, that when I turned eighteen, I wasn’t just going to get any tattoo; it would be meaningful, something truly representative of me. Like many first-timers, I spent ages trying to land on the perfect piece. Eventually, I got my wish in July 2020, marking my skin for the first time with a permanent piece of art: my grandmother’s handwriting. That first tattoo opened the floodgates. Suddenly, my mind buzzed with countless tattoo ideas. The only thing holding me back from turning my body into a full-blown canvas was, ironically, the cost. Tattoos, as I quickly learned, weren’t exactly budget-friendly.
By February 2021, the urge to get more ink became too strong to ignore. Instead of just dreaming about it, I decided to take action. I reached out to a close friend who was a tattoo artist and asked him to teach me the basics of stick and poke tattooing. From that moment on, my free time transformed into tattoo sessions, adorning myself with a growing collection of random, meaningful, and often just plain Silly Tattoos. My skin now showcases everything from symbols representing my closest relationships to a hilarious quote from the Australian comedy group Aunty Donna.
My body started to become a patchwork of ink, some lines cleaner than others, some designs more refined, but all of them contributing to something I was beginning to truly adore.
When I first started experimenting with stick and poke, my mother was, understandably, the first to know. I sent her a picture of my initial attempt with a casual message along the lines of, “Just letting you know, I’m tattooing myself now!” I can only imagine the whirlwind of memories flashing through her mind of all the times she’d warned me against covering myself in piercings and tattoos. To her credit, she simply shrugged it off and replied with a practical, “Doesn’t it hurt?”
Fast forward a few months, and the unthinkable happened: she let me give her a tattoo. This was the same mother who had spent five decades declaring she would never get a tattoo. Yet, there she was, letting me ink a tiny music note onto her skin, a symbol of her lifelong passion.
My tattoos have become intrinsically linked to my identity. They aren’t mistakes I anticipate regretting, but rather outward expressions of my inner self. And here’s the thing – not all of them are deeply meaningful or meticulously planned. In fact, most of my tattoos are far from it. Many were impulsive decisions, born out of boredom while watching TV, or inspired by a joke shared with friends. A lot of them are simply things that bring a smile to my face.
Whether it’s a line of text in my favorite actor’s handwriting or a cluster of stars I spontaneously doodled during a virtual game night, each tattoo tells a story about who I am. I like stars, hearts, and clouds, so naturally, I tattooed them. I wanted to remember a friend who had passed away, so I inked an inside joke we used to share. I’m a fan of the movie Psycho (the original, definitely not the remake), so I have a bloody knife tattoo that still manages to elicit a grimace from my mom.
It wasn’t until a therapy session that I truly began to understand my newfound passion for tattooing myself. My therapist, from our very first meeting, had noticed my tattoos and recognized them for what they were long before I did: a loud and clear form of self-expression. They were a way for me to present myself to the world and declare, “This is me.”
She helped me realize that my tattoos reflected a strong sense of self and a deep passion for the things and people in my life. It felt natural, even necessary, for that passion to manifest outwardly, to seep through my skin in the form of ink.
Each tattoo carries a story. Some are long and complex, like the one behind the number 29 on my ankle, representing a deep friendship. Others are shorter, like the lyrics from one of my favorite arias by Juan Diego Flòrez. And some are delightfully inconsequential, like a tattoo I gave myself simply because I had leftover ink from another session. Every single one, regardless of its depth or silliness, is a piece of who I am, an expression of my identity. Even the lack of serious thought behind many of them is, in itself, part of that identity, and something I’m genuinely proud of. I have a tattoo on my wrist that reads, “this is my wrist,” and it never fails to get a laugh. Just as importantly, I have a small nonbinary symbol on my ankle that fills me with warmth every time I see it, making my gender identity as visible and undeniable as my freckles or eye color.
For me, tattooing myself is an act of self-acceptance and self-love, perhaps one of the most profound I’ve ever practiced. It’s about taking pieces of myself, big and small, and putting them on display for the world to see.
How often have I felt self-conscious about my interests, worried about oversharing and boring people? Now, those interests are literally etched onto my skin, readily visible to anyone. You don’t even need to strike up a conversation to discover my love for Spider-Man, thanks to the Miles Morales tattoo proudly displayed on my right arm!
My tattoos, even the shaky, imperfect, and silly tattoos, are a fundamental part of who I am, and I wouldn’t have them any other way. They are all, undeniably, me.
Not everyone might resonate with covering themselves in small, often silly or jokey tattoos as much as I do. Some people choose to express themselves through fashion, hairstyles, or a collection of pins on a denim jacket. But regardless of the chosen medium, self-expression is vital and incredibly beautiful.
There are few things more courageous than presenting our true selves to the world, whether to strangers or loved ones. And there’s an immense sense of liberation and freedom that comes with embracing and expressing our authentic identity, regardless of others’ opinions. There is genuine beauty in allowing ourselves to be seen, silly tattoos and all.
