The Tattoo

The MotherHood: Vulnerable Stories from Powerful Mothers

The Tattoo

Written by Marisa Lonic

It was December 12, 2022. My appointment was at 10:00am. I’d scheduled it at that time because our part-time nanny would be there to watch my youngest after I’d already dropped my older kids off at school. Despite my being responsible in this way, I felt nothing of the sort. The night before I’d had a terrible dream about frivolously shopping at Bergdorf Goodman in New York City with an old friend, when I needed to actually be picking up my son at school. I had no business shopping at Bergdorf nor shopping in general during this particularly tight financial season of life. Also, I live in California, not New York. Dreams can be strange and yet so in tune.

The cost was a measly $250, but even that felt like a stretch during that season. I’d convinced myself it was a necessary expense, though, as it was a meaningful and spiritual step in my journey. It would be something I’d look at daily and be reminded of my closeness to God and the Universe. It would calm my nerves when I was feeling shaky about life and business decisions as a newer entrepreneur. It would reassure me when I was doubting my path. It would remind me to surrender and trust the process when all I seemed to be doing was seeking out control. In my mind, it was worth far more than $250; it was priceless.

That morning as I nervously stopped at the ATM and withdrew the balance I owed, I couldn’t help but feel uneasy, unsteady, off balance. I drove to the appointment in secret. It felt almost embarrassing to tell anyone this is what I was doing on a Monday morning, instead of working, instead of being a mom. My intuition was coming on strong, and everything inside me screamed, “Don’t go! Don’t do it!”. And yet, all I could do was silence the internal screams with placating attempts to assure myself these were just nerves because I was doing something outside my comfort zone.

Here's the thing about comfort zones, though. It’s good to get out them. And I’m actually a huge fan of going outside your comfort zone…regularly. Leaving your comfort zone promotes growth. It gives you wings. It can make you feel invincible. But, as much as I tried to convince myself that getting outside my comfort zone was exactly what I was doing, this was not that. This was going to the bad zone. It was like leaving the comfort zone and continuing on into a space that had signs that say, “Keep out” and “Danger Zone”. And yet, here I was walking in, semi-confidently even, because I’m not the type of girl you can scare away easily.

That’s right, tell me I can’t do something or I shouldn’t do something, and my first reaction isn’t to reflect on your words. It’s, “Watch me, bitch.”

So, despite my intuition clearly warning me not to go, my nerves playing tricks on me, and even my GPS bringing me to the wrong location (true story), my stubborn-self powered through and arrived at the tattoo shop, right on time.

I was greeted by the owner and artist who rushed me in and quickly measured two sizes of the same design stencil on my forearm, where I said I wanted the placement to be. At first, she put it upside-down (at least in my eyes). “No”, I said. “It goes the opposite way.” “Sure, whatever you like” was her response.

I looked at the stencil in the mirror for a minute. I was anything but sure this was what I wanted. The energy in the room was a hurried, almost stressful vibe-filled with shallow breathing and the smell of caffeine. The pressure to get started was high and impatient.

I laid down on the table, left arm straight out and started to take some deep breaths as the painful artistry began. Twenty minutes later I was inked. I paid my balance and a tip, and hopped into my car, still shaking.

I should have felt excited. I tried. But, I felt sick. I immediately questioned myself, my sanity. And for the next few days, avoided looking at my arm like the plague. The sight of the tattoo repulsed me. It was supposed to be meaningful in delivering peace and security, yet all it brought me was angst, a reminder of a poor decision, an ironic, cruel joke to listen to your gut, even though I had done anything but.

I didn’t even tell my husband I’d gotten it for three days. I knew he would be disappointed in my decision, and because I already felt such disappointment in myself, I was terrified to layer on any more of it from anyone else.

One late night, just as I was started to accept this ‘mistake’ I’d made, I came across the various sketches of the tattoo design the artist had sent me weeks prior in my phone’s photo gallery. I’d had a few similar options to review, but ended up choosing the first, most simple design she’d sent. My heart skipped a beat. I quickly realized my tattoo, the one on my actual skin, was NOT the choice I’d made, the one we’d agreed upon. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t caught this in the shop, when she measured the design stencils and placement on my arm. While the difference wasn’t huge, it was still different and the part that was ‘incorrect’, had been hard “No” the first time I saw it, not even a questionable option.

By that Friday, just four days from ink day, I was researching the tattoo removal process and felt a smidge better that I had options to get rid of this choice I so regretted. I came across a blog article of someone’s tattoo removal journey who’d had not only a similar experience of wanting to remove her tattoo days after she’d gotten it, but a similar design as well. It seemed like this would inevitably be my next step.

Over the next few weeks, I researched everything about different types of lasers, reputable tattoo removal companies, and costs related to it. I’d have to wait six weeks to start the process. And that measly $250 and 25-minute process would now be turning into thousands and years to complete. I felt so ashamed. I felt so awful. I felt so dumb.

Thankfully winter was upon us, and I was able to wear long sleeves day in and day out. This not only helped me conceal the tattoo from anyone else and not have to talk about my big, fat mistake, it also helped me not have to be reminded of it by accidently glancing at it numerous times per day.

I did everything over the next few months to keep my tattoo under wraps. I slept in hoodies. I worked out in long sleeves. I locked the door every time I showered for fear one of my kids would enter and see it.

And then, spring arrived, and so did warmer weather. One particularly hot afternoon of 90 degrees Fahrenheit, I could not handle it. I took off my layered, long-sleeved shirt and exposed my tattoo. Well, technically I exposed it although I strategically moved my arm in ways no one noticed. I still wasn’t ready to face my shame publicly.

Soon enough, I needed to come to terms with the fact that this tattoo, even if it would end up being temporary, was something I needed to let out of its cage (or sleeve for that matter). And the audience I feared discovering it most was living right under my roof: my kids.

As a mom, I had always tried to set the right example, make good decisions, pave the path for a life of smart, responsible, good citizens ahead. And yet, here I was, 38 years old, having to tell my children I made a big, expensive, dumb, mistake. I feared their judgement. I feared their questioning my judgement. I feared, so I hid, until I couldn’t sweat it out anymore (literally). It’s not that I didn’t want my kids to ever get tattoos. It’s that I didn’t want them to make decisions they’d later regret. And I knew, without a doubt, if I’d only listened to my intuition that day, I wouldn’t have felt the remorse I did for my arm art.

The funny part of it all is when I sat down with my kids and told them about the tattoo, they cared so little. They even said they liked it and questioned why I was removing it. The conversation wasn’t meant to discourage tattoos, but to be a teachable moment about trusting your intuition and how important it is to listen to it when faced with decisions, big or small. After that conversation, it instantly felt like my shame, guilt, and anxiety over the tattoo had been lifted. I still wanted to get rid of it, but I was no longer ashamed of myself for doing it. It was freeing.

That tattoo made me realize a lot of things, about my judgement, my gut, myself. The thing I didn’t expect, though, was how much more I was affected by it because of my role as a mom. Motherhood has layered in additional pressure, anxiety, stress, and shame in every decision I make. Not only do I feel the need to parent others well, I realize the need to parent myself along the way. I no longer regret the tattoo, even though I’m still in the arduous process of removing it two years later. It taught me things and gave me permission to open my vulnerability door to my children, one that was often deadbolt locked shut. I do wish the removal process was quicker and cheaper, but maybe I needed to sit with that ink as long as I did to fully receive the gift it gave me.  

P.S. I don’t hate tattoos. I still think about getting another one. But if/when I do, I’ll listen to my intuition and trust where it’s guiding me.

Marisa Lonic is a certified intuitive life & business coach, keynote speaker, bestselling author, top-rated podcast host, and the CEO of Mama Work It and Marisa Lonic Coaching & Consulting. As a former corporate leader turned entrepreneur, she has helped individuals in over 90 countries turn their dreams into reality, even when they thought they had no time to make any of it happen. When she’s not working, she’s usually spending time in her favorite role to date: mom.

You can connect with her at: www.mamaworkit.com or www.marisalonic.com