I don’t often glance at my tattoo on my lower back, commonly labeled a “tramp stamp,” although that term wasn’t in vogue when I got it in my 20s. The colors remain vibrant, and I can’t help but chuckle at the memory of that day—the look on my friend’s face when the needle hit the most sensitive spot. It was a chaotic time for me, marked by impulsive decisions. While I rarely reflect on that period, I cherish the tattoo as a symbol of my past.
I still coordinate my jewelry with the six silver hoops adorning my ears. I frequently swap out the two earrings in my lobes, but the others, which climb into my cartilage, remain as silver hoops. Occasionally, I contemplate whether it’s time to remove them—am I too mature for eight piercings? But no, those piercings have been a part of me since I got my first earrings at 12, right up to my cartilage piercings at a Georgetown tattoo parlor. I’m not ready to part with them.
My navel ring is a different story. I managed to keep it during my first pregnancy using a flexible piece of jewelry, but it came out just before my emergency C-section. I miss that emblem of my 20s, but its absence reveals thin silver scars that mark pivotal moments of my 30s—surgeries that welcomed my children into the world.
Each day, I examine my face. Makeup has always been a part of my routine, allowing me to engage with my features and witness their transformation. Last year, I gave in to vanity and asked a cosmetic dermatologist to address the pronounced droop of my left eye, which seemed to age quicker than my right. A touch of Botox has restored some symmetry, yet the web of fine lines around my eyes persists, refusing to disappear even in repose. The shadows from my mouth to my nose can be softened with Instagram filters, but not in reality. I could consult my Botox specialist for more solutions, but it feels simpler to smile and mask those lines with joy.
My body serves as a cartography of my life experiences. Each mark tells a story—from my teenage years to my 20s and into my 30s. Over the years, I’ve etched moments and emotions into my skin with ink and needles. Now, as I navigate my early 40s, nature is taking over the role that piercers and tattoo artists once played. You can see the impressions left by squinting at my son’s first soccer game, laughing at my daughter’s off-key Disney renditions, and crying when my grandparents passed. The softened skin on my hands holds the imprints of my wedding rings, time’s trace intertwined with ink and metal—each element narrating a precious story. I have no intention of erasing my past; I will embrace my tattoos, earrings, scars, and wrinkles as testament to my journey.
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In summary, my body narrates the tale of my life, with each mark and piercing reflecting the moments that have shaped me. I choose to honor this story rather than conceal it.