I don’t often glance at my lower back tattoo, often dismissed as a “tramp stamp,” although that term was not in circulation when I got it in my twenties. The colors remain vibrant, and I can’t help but chuckle recalling the day I got it—my friend still laughs about my expression when the needle hit the most sensitive spot. This tattoo marks a chaotic phase of my life, filled with reckless decisions. It’s a period I don’t dwell on often, but I appreciate its place in my personal history.
I still coordinate my jewelry with the six silver hoops adorning my ears. I frequently switch out the two standard earrings in my lobes, but the cartilage ones remain the same. Sometimes I wonder if I’ve outgrown having eight earrings, but then I remember collecting those piercings since I first got my ears pierced at 12 in the local mall, right up to my cartilage piercings at a trendy tattoo parlor in Georgetown. I’m not ready to part with them just yet.
My navel ring, however, is a thing of the past. I kept it through my first pregnancy with a special flexible piece, but I removed it before they wheeled me in for my emergency C-section. While I miss that token from my twenties, it has been replaced by delicate silver scars from the pivotal moments of my thirties—the surgeries that welcomed my children into the world.
Every morning, I face my reflection. I’ve always worn makeup, which means I’ve always had a close relationship with my features, watching them change over time. Last year, I succumbed to vanity and visited a cosmetic dermatologist to address the noticeable droop of my left eye, which seemed to be aging faster than my right. A little Botox helped restore some symmetry. Yet, the fine lines around my eyes remain, a testament to years of laughter and joy. I could consult my Botox specialist about filling in those gaps, but it feels easier to simply smile more, masking the lines with happiness.
My body is a map of my life’s journey. Each mark tells a story from my teenage years, through my twenties, and into my thirties. I’ve etched memories and emotions onto my skin with tattoos and piercings over the years. Now, as I step into my forties, nature is taking over where ink and metal once were. You can see the evidence of squinting at my son’s first soccer game and laughing at my daughter’s off-key renditions of Disney songs. You can even trace the tears shed during the loss of my grandparents. The softened skin of my hands bears the imprints of the rings my husband placed on my fingers. Time’s traces coexist with the ink and metal, weaving together a narrative that is just as valuable. I refuse to hide that story.
I’m not ready to erase my past. I will embrace my tattoos, earrings, scars, and wrinkles—the map of my journey thus far.
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