The Tattoo I Was Too Scared Not to Get

On body sovereignty and disappointing people.

Eight of the goddess in attendance. Photo by Tobi.

This one is close to my heart. It's about being too scared to eat at the table you've been invited to—and what happens when you sit down anyway. If it resonates, share it with a woman who's been walking back and forth on something. And I'd love to hear your big chicken moment in the comments.

---

“I live in alignment with the truth of my life.”

That’s what the tattoo on my arm means. I got it at 62, at a goddess gathering, knowing full well I would be disappointing a very important person in my life, my husband.

I met Tobi, a massage therapist, six years ago. While she worked on my back, we chatted, getting to know each other. She was easy to talk to and a superb listener. Her intelligent hands knew what I didn’t say, as my body telegraphed my life story without words.

Over time, we discovered we had much in common. We were both yoga teachers who’d grown disillusioned with the yoga industry. Our hair went gray early in life, and we let our natural color grow out. We both struggled with parents who had mental health issues, and we both had divorced.

One thing about us was starkly different, though: Tobi’s body was a canvas of many tattoos, and I had none.

Tobi inspired me at every appointment. She sparked so many ideas in me, often giving me a laundry list of things to do when I left. She was part coach, part masseuse, part acupuncturist, all rolled into one.

After COVID lifted, Tobi started ladies-only group gatherings, where we could mingle and meet other fabulous women. Here, everyone could speak from the heart. Tobi’s gatherings were sacred spaces of connection and loving support.

This year was even more remarkable, though. This was the first time she was holding the gathering in her own space. She’d gotten a degree in acupuncture a few months earlier and was now running her business in a newly rented studio.

Generously, she allowed me to invite a few friends to join. Altogether, thirty of us worked on our vision boards and ate vegetarian food, with the option to get a tattoo if we wanted. Tobi mentioned at my appointment earlier in the week that Norali, the tattoo artist, would be there.

Tobi has seen me undressed. She knew I didn’t have any tattoos anywhere, yet she asked if I was getting one. No, I hadn’t been planning on it, but that question watered a seed.

The night before the gathering, my husband and I were out with a friend. He mentioned I was going to the goddess gathering the next day, and I added that a tattoo artist would be there.

“Would you get a tattoo?” our friend asked.

“I’m not saying no. I might.”

My husband either didn’t hear me or thought I was kidding. He goes off about tattoos sometimes—how he believed people lived with regret after getting them and how they would remove them if they could. He routinely sends my kids articles about tattoo ink causing cancer. I know his position. Some tattoos are in poor taste, I’ll give him that. But I’ve also seen works of art, ones that make me want to ask the person their story.

Two of my three kids have tattoos. I was with my daughter during a correction session for an ill-advised college tattoo. I got excited watching the artist work, and had visions of him tattooing a giant peacock on my back.

I easily talked myself out of it, citing wrinkly skin, back rolls, and probable regrets later.

But now I was thinking about it again. Norali did hand-poke medicine tattoos—intentional marking rooted in presence and symbolism. She intuitively channeled each tattoo. Her clients could choose from an array of beautiful, one-of-a-kind ancestral magic. Two of the women I invited already had one from Norali and were getting another one that night.

They also asked me if I was getting one. I shrugged.

I walked over to where a woman was getting tattooed to watch Norali at work. I considered the templates available to choose from that day. They were interesting and intricate; still, I couldn’t decide.

I kept going back to watch, making everyone slide in so I could get by. Each woman receiving their tattoo was so at ease, breathing steadily as the ink took shape. Everyone in line already had tattoos—this was just another layer of their story, not a big deal. One woman was covered neck-to-toe in them, and Norali was somehow finding one last bare spot to fill.

I felt like a big chicken. Like Tobi had invited me to a feast, but I was too afraid to eat. All this nervous energy, walking back and forth, looking at the designs again, watching the needle do its work, trying to borrow courage from these women who had already claimed this for themselves.

I knew what was waiting at home. That voice in my head telling me this was too much, not classy, that I’d regret it. It wasn’t just my doubt but the disapproval of others, especially my husband, already internalized before I’d even made a choice.

But what if I left without doing it? What if I drove home knowing that I had let fear control me? That thought felt worse than the tattoo itself. Worse than the conversation I’d have to have with myself later. I didn’t want to be the woman who came this close and then backed away because of wrinkly skin, or cancer articles, or someone else’s opinion about what belonged on my body.

I returned to my friend who had added to her tattoo that day and examined it again. It was so her—beautiful.

Weary from my deliberation, I sat down with Norali. “This is my first tattoo.”

Norali bowed her head. “I am honored that you are trusting me with it.”

I chose the tattoo with the message: “I live in alignment with the truth of my life.”

I didn’t feel a thing as she worked. Instead, I focused on listening to each lady speak and tell her story. When Norali finished, I was excited to see it.

My friends looked so shocked and proud. Tobi beamed. Norali even posted a photo of my forearm with her tattoo on her Instagram.

@nestaloveom

༶༶༶ Norali ༶༶༶ on Instagram: "grateful, first of all, to @iamb…

On the way home, the closer I got, the more nervous I became.

When I told my husband, he thought I was kidding at first. I showed him the evidence on my arm. His eyebrows rose, and his eyes widened.

“Oh, no!”

He muttered something about my tattoo making his day even worse.

Later, I tried to name it. “I know you’re really disappointed in me.”

Somehow, he’d turned a corner. “It’s your body. You can do what you want.”

And that was it. Technically, the right answer. I knew it would take some time for full acceptance.

But he was right about one thing: it is my body—my body that had carried three children, that had done what others had expected of it for decades, that other people’s ideas had shaped about how it should look, what it should do, what marks were acceptable and which weren’t.

At 62, I claimed a different truth. Not just the image on my arm, but the act itself. I am my own person. My body isn’t for anyone’s pleasure except my own. Not even someone who loves me gets to decide what I write on my skin.

When I look at that tattoo now, I see more than Norali’s beautiful hand-poke work. I see the woman who was too afraid to eat at the table, too afraid to take up space. And I see the woman who sat down anyway, despite the nerves, despite the voice of disapproval she’d already internalized, despite knowing the conversation waiting at home.

I see a woman living in alignment with the truth of her life.

What’s your “big chicken” moment—the thing you almost didn’t do because you were too scared?