The first tattoo I got, my mom cried. Not the dramatic movie kind — the quiet, disappointed kind that's honestly worse. She said I'd ruined my skin. That no one would take me seriously. That I'd regret it by thirty.
I'm past the age she warned me about. I have more ink now than I did then. And the only thing I regret is not getting them sooner.
Here's what people don't understand about tattoos: every single one is a decision to put yourself first. You're choosing to mark your body in a way that makes you happy, fully aware that some people will hate it. That's not reckless. That's radical self-trust.
The judgment comes from everywhere. Family dinners where your aunt stares at your arm like you just committed a felony. Job interviews where the interviewer's eyes drift to your wrist while they're asking about your "five-year plan." Strangers in line at the grocery store who feel entitled to ask "did that hurt?" like your body is a public exhibit.
And then there's the internet, where people get bold behind a keyboard. "You'd be so pretty without all that ink." Cool, thanks, didn't ask. "You're going to look terrible when you're old." Newsflash: we're all going to look terrible when we're old. At least I'll have a cool mural to show for it.
The turning point for me wasn't some big epiphany. It was smaller than that. I posted a photo showing my tattoos — all of them, no hiding, no strategic angles — and the response was split. Half the people loved it. Half had opinions. And I realized something: the people with opinions weren't going to like me either way. I could cover up, tone it down, play safe, and they'd find something else to criticize. That's what they do.
So I stopped trying to be palatable. Stopped wearing long sleeves to family events. Stopped angling my photos to hide things. Stopped apologizing for decisions I'd make again in a heartbeat.
The "InkedMayhem" name isn't random. It's exactly what this is — ink that causes mayhem in people's expectations. Tattoos on a girl who's also soft and funny and obsessed with her dog. A body that doesn't fit the neat little box people want to put it in.
If you've got ink, or piercings, or colored hair, or anything that makes people uncomfortable — good. That discomfort is their problem, not yours. The people who matter won't ask you to shrink. They'll just pull up a chair and ask to hear the stories behind each one.
And those stories? They're way more interesting than anything judgment ever produced.