In my teens I thought they were cool. I got a butterfly inked onto my shoulder blade and I still remember everything about that day.
In my 20s I decorated my skin with flowers, owning my skin with every line and flourish. I wore my ink with pride. My boyfriend wasn’t a fan, but that didn’t stop me.
In my 30s I fell in love with a man whose lifestyle was as far from tattoos as you could yet. I wished I didn’t have them. I wished to be someone else.
Here in my 40s I own and inhabit every cell in my body. I don’t want to be anybody else, only me, with all the choices and mistakes and epiphanies that brings. My tattoos are infused with meaning and magic, sacred spells written on my skin.