It wasn’t an impulsive decision. I had contemplated this for almost a year, ever since I turned 40. This tattoo was part of a personal bucket list—things I had postponed out of concern for others’ opinions. Could I really author a book? Do “good girls” really get tattoos? The inner voice that once shouted “no one” and “no way” throughout my 20s and 30s had quieted as I entered my 40s.
“Is this your midlife crisis?” a friend asked, half-joking and half-serious, when I finally shared my tattoo plans. “Absolutely not!” I retorted defensively. However, I began to ponder: What really defines a midlife crisis? Is it the realization that you’ve spent years adhering to an unspoken set of expectations, only to see your plans unravel? Is it neglecting your own desires while prioritizing others’ needs so much that you lose sight of yourself? Is it reflecting on past relationships and opportunities, wondering if more await you?
Perhaps, just perhaps, it is.
I meticulously considered the design for my tattoo, gathering images on a private Pinterest board. Yet, as my 40th year progressed, I hesitated to take action, letting time slip away. As summer approached, I determined it was time to act. I found an artist online whose work resonated with me and sent in a request for a consultation.
Upon entering the tattoo shop, dressed casually in yoga pants and holding a coffee, I was met with curious stares from the heavily tattooed and pierced staff. I felt like an apple among oranges. However, when Tara, the artist I had chosen, greeted me, I felt at ease. She was warm and attentive, reviewing my sketches and listening to my ideas. Before I could second-guess myself, I placed a deposit, booked an appointment for a month later, and left feeling empowered.
As the date approached, my confidence wavered. For someone who tends to keep emotions guarded, the idea of getting a tattoo felt remarkably bold, even audacious. What if my family disapproved? How would my friends perceive me? What if the tattoo revealed aspects of my identity I wasn’t ready to expose? But then I thought, does it really matter?
One of the most valuable lessons I’ve learned in my four decades is this: No one is paying as much attention to me as I often believe. There’s no secret society critiquing my flaws, no scholar analyzing my missteps. Most people are too preoccupied with their own lives to scrutinize mine. And if they do, and find me lacking, no amount of effort can change their minds.
So, there I was, lying on a gray vinyl table, breathing through the discomfort, employing yoga techniques to manage the pain. “Is it worse than childbirth?” a fellow patron inquired. “Well,” I replied, “it won’t take as long.”
This comparison prompted me to reconsider my perspective. Yes, a tattoo is a permanent mark, but my skin already bears its share of scars—stretch marks from pregnancy, a smooth patch from a childhood skateboard accident, and a triangular scar from a kitchen mishap. At least a tattoo represents a scar I’ve chosen.
Tara shared a story about her oldest client, a 76-year-old grandmother who decided to get her first tattoo—a whimsical owl on a stack of pancakes. She surprised her family at a reunion with this bold choice. That story resonated with me; if Grandma Owl could face her fears, surely I could too.
Tara also mentioned that she would soon be giving her own mother her first tattoo. I hadn’t yet broached the subject with my own mother, unsure of her reaction. I often tell my 11-year-old daughter to avoid anything she wouldn’t want me to know, a sentiment she quickly echoed back to me with a hint of judgment when I first revealed my plans. My 8-year-old son, however, shrugged it off. “Fine,” he said, “but it’s going to hurt.”
In the days leading up to my appointment, I made another attempt to convince my daughter. She pondered for a moment before saying, “You know, Mama, you’re going to get old and wrinkly, and then your tattoo will look bad.” I considered her words. It’s possible I may regret this decision—tomorrow, in a few years, or even later in life. But I already carry numerous regrets, neatly categorized under “people I’ve hurt,” “opportunities missed,” and “money wasted on shoes.” Although I can’t change those past choices, I can reduce the items in the “things left undone” folder.
So, I shared this perspective with her, a lesson I hope she remembers as she grows older: If my biggest regret when I pass is a tattoo, then I will have led a fulfilling life.
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Summary
This article reflects on the author’s decision to get a tattoo at 40, exploring the personal significance of the choice and the fears surrounding societal judgment. Ultimately, the experience becomes a symbol of empowerment and self-acceptance, reinforcing the idea that personal fulfillment often requires stepping outside of societal norms.