In Defense of Impulsive Tattoos

It ended up being one of my best decisions.

Growing up, my parents and grandparents would point out people with numerous tattoos as the epitome of what to avoid. “You’ll only work at McDonald’s with that many tattoos,” they would say, only within my earshot of course. And I know this was just reflective of their culture — that they wanted numerous opportunities for me, that tattoos were even more stigmatized for previous generations.

But even when I adopted a more progressive mindset toward tattoos, not judging anyone else for them, I couldn’t imagine myself with one unless I found the very perfect design. But my standards of perfection were so high they basically barred any chance of my getting one. And how could I really know I was informed and ready enough to make such a decision?

Then, something snapped in me. After a tumultuous summer of newfound independence, heartbreak, lost friendships, impending graduation, and a Peace Corps offer, I felt like my world was spinning. I couldn’t control the passage of time, or relationships, or a million other mercurial aspects characteristic of adulthood.

My body was the only thing I really had complete control over, and I had learned to take ownership over it, that only I could — or at least should — claim it for myself.

In response, my brain fixated on the idea of getting a tattoo so quickly and firmly I felt powerless to stop it. Like I had to catch up with my own self.

My brain told myself that getting a tattoo so impulsively epitomized a bad idea. But I told my friend I was thinking of getting one next week, although I only had a few vague ideas of designs at the time. She eagerly told me she’d come with me. I was glad for not only the offer of company but also some degree of accountability, less chance of my backing out.

I thought of tiny, cute ones I could get. But when browsing Instagram, I discovered it. I was a little scared of the design, because it was bold and larger than I thought fitting for my first tattoo, or even any tattoo I imagined on my own body.

I had been thinking a tiger tattoo would be fun, except I didn’t think I was cool enough to pull that off. I also liked the idea of a moon, but was unenthusiastic about the usual moon tattoos I had seen — sometimes clichéd, too common for me personally. (No judgment over them in general, just didn’t speak to me).

Now, I saw one combining both images. I took it as a sign.

“Do you have any other tattoos?” my tattoo artist asked before he began.

“Nope, this is my first one,” I told him.

“Wow, you’re starting out big,” he said in surprise. I winced — how good of a sign could it be when the artist covered in tattoos himself thought I was making a bold move? Still, I was ready.

Later, I’d come up with varying answers to others’ questions why I got it — tigers are my favorite animal as well as my Chinese Zodiac sign, I love space, moons are emblematic of my Cancer Sun and Moon signs. Bafflingly, at least three people guessed I was a Leo because of the tiger (even though a Leo is represented by a lion). One girl looked at me with disappointment when I told her the placement of the stars on my design was not symbolic of any moment in my life. But to be honest, the main reason I got it is because I think it looks beautiful and badass, and it spoke to me.

My parents’ and grandparents’ feelings varied on my tattoo, but nothing strongly worded in my direction. My grandpa even found it cool, and he’s seemingly often forgotten I even have it, meaning I’ve gotten a positive reaction multiple times.

I’m sure they wonder if I’ll regret it. But while I can’t swear I’ll never lose my favor with it (although I doubt it), such a feeling wouldn’t translate to regret. My tattoo gave me a huge surge of confidence, conversation topics, a distraction from the pink-red coloring on the back of my arm that I’m self-conscious about, and perhaps most importantly, a mark of who I was at that time, still learning but asserting herself in a way she never had. A little foolishly, maybe, but boldly and with trust in herself.

The fact that I wanted this imprinted on my body forever inherently makes it meaningful. When I see it, I think of my impulsive need to assert my independence, bodily autonomy, embrace of change. Sure, it won’t look as good when I’m sixty, or eighty, but probably little about me at those ages will look conventionally more attractive in comparison to me at age 22. Why not at least pay tribute to a younger self I’m sure I’ll be proud of?

Of course, there are some factors worth taking into account before making such a decision—the effort required to ensure it heals properly, workplace standards, cultural sensitivity over foreign words or sacred symbols. I don’t mean this piece as an endorsement of getting any kind of tattoo under any circumstances, but rather that impulsivity shouldn’t be seen as a sign that it’s inherently a bad idea.

Really, I think so long as there’s no passivity, I generally see nothing wrong with getting a tattoo. I got my second one a few months after my first, and I went through it reflexively because I had already gone through this before, so how big of a deal could it be? While I don’t regret getting it, I wish I had approached it with more excitement and care, the level I had for my first, when it felt so empowering and huge. Now I’ve learned to keep that in mind for future tattoos (whenever it’s safe after the pandemic).

Trust your gut, whatever it is that’s pulling you. Tattoos symbolize perhaps better than anything else your own autonomy and choices, and everyone should feel emboldened to cover their bodies in them or have none at all.