As warm weather draws closer and the sleeves on my clothes get shorter, I start getting the, “I didn’t know you had a tattoo” comments from new acquaintances. I realize I haven’t ever written about it, so here’s the lowdown:

I was raised like any well-bred southern girl to believe tattoos meant you were planning to join a gang (or were already in one), you’d reject God, or you were marking your body for the Devil. To the culture’s credit, there is an obscure verse in the Bible about tattoos being marks of the Devil, but I’m not going to go through the semantics of context, translation, and patriarchal culture in this article.

Somewhere along the way, I realized it was silly to assess someone’s maturity in Christ by marks on their body. Much like I’d determined it was silly to questions someone’s salvation if they smoked cigarettes, though I know many well-bred Evangelicals who might still wonder if someone is saved if they keep a pack lying around.

Also, why are cigars and pipes so much more socially acceptable than cigarettes? Where do we come up with this stuff?

So I got it in my head this belief about tattoos was silly, and started my well-crafted plan for eventually getting one.

And boy was my plan well-crafted. I had a Pinterest board and everything. I did research online as I wanted it in a place that was typically visible, not my back or ribs or a place typically covered by clothing.

I did not want words (words change their meaning over time). I wanted a symbol that represented me, but also needed a little explanation—I wanted it to be a conversation starter.

There was some hesitation, solidified by the reality that this marking was permanent. Did I want this on my body forever? Would I still like it in ten years? Would I still be able to get a job if people could see my tattoo? Was covering your tattoo for an interview still a thing?

After ten years. Yes, ten. Whole. Years. I decided I was going to regret not getting a tattoo more than I would regret getting one.

I researched tattoo artists and got my tattoo priced at the shop with the best reviews. My symbol of choice was a quill pen (I’m a writer) but I didn’t want a design with an ink bottle or words designating it was a quill pen. Which meant people might think it was a feather. Since feathers stand for freedom and I’d say a great majority of my life has been a quest for freedom, I felt both meanings fit.

Plus, I just liked it.

It was a snowy March day where I lived in DC. I took two friends who had several tattoos. They held my hand for the first buzz of the needle that stung like a burn. After that, the feeling was that of a rough tickle. I had researched this, also, and knew it was my endorphins kicking in.

My friends asked my what I would tell my children when they saw my tattoo. I said, “I’ll say, I was 31 when I got my first tattoo and planned it out for ten years. Once you’re an adult and paying your own bills, you can get as many tattoos as you’d like.”

After the procedure, I understood why people like getting tattoos. I was on an endorphin high and was very cheerful for several hours.

The healing process was pretty easy. It felt like a bad sunburn for about two weeks, and for about six weeks the skin was raw.

The end result was a wispy little feather/quill pen that I love and haven’t regretted for one second.

My next tattoo, I’d like to be a communal tattoo. Perhaps one to share with all of my sisters, or something.

My favorite thing about encountering people with tattoos is there’s usually story behind the mark. I love finding out this story.

Comment and tell me the story of your tattoo(s)!

Tattoo