
“Wait one more year,” my mom kept telling me. I was 18 and like every other person “coming of age,” I wanted my first tattoo. I wasn’t particularly rebellious or whatever you want to call it. I was just young, and to be honest, I thought it would be cool to get a tattoo. I wanted a meaningful Bible verse on my ribcage. Total cliché, I know.
I decided to wait a year, for my mom, because she asked so nicely and was so concerned about my wellbeing. What’s one more year anyway, right? During that year, I finished high school and started my freshman year of college. I had gone with many friends as they got tattoos, and it always took a bit of self-restraint to not just say screw it and get one myself. When I went with friends, I was always the one holding their hands and taking photos. I couldn’t wait to be the one finally getting one.






