Tattoos vs. Embroidery

Between the ages of 18 and 30—that is, between 2008 and 2020—I got a whole bunch of tattoos. People sometimes ask me how many tattoos I have, and every time I start counting them on the spot, I realize afterward that I’ve forgotten at least one. So I’m not going to attempt to give an exact number now either. Some are quite large, but most are relatively small. In any case, my arms and legs aren’t covered in tattoos (though I would have loved that back then!). Each tattoo has its own unique meaning, but at the same time, they all served the same purpose: to express myself and set myself apart from others. Some tattoos are fairly innocent and tame. They are, for example, little flowers that I drew myself or had drawn, and then had placed on my back or feet. Others express raw pain, like the semicolon on my arm (from 2015) or a little diamond I had inked as an act of rebellion against my ex (a year later, in 2016). Still other tattoos were to cover up failed tattoos (the feather on my forearm) and yet others to make myself, so to speak, more attractive. One was a bond between me and my best friend at the time, though that relationship has since ended five years ago. I regret every tattoo, except for one: the one with my grandparents’ initials on my wrist. And even that one I actually regret, because today I would have approached remembering and honoring them in a completely different way.

Now, the fact is that those tattoos are there, and I’ll never be able to get rid of them. People had warned me plenty of times, though, that I’d regret it later. But I wasn’t thinking about later. I was focused on the here and now, and I wanted to live life to the fullest. I wanted my body to reflect what I was feeling: pain, sadness, friendship, love, rebellion, and everything that goes on inside a person. I wanted to be readable and understood by others. I wanted to show the world who I was and what I stood for. And then, of course, there was the addictive aspect of tattoos. Getting them done hurts like crazy (at least for me), but that was exactly what I liked about it. The high it gave me during and afterward was intense enough to make me go for it again a little while later. If it hadn’t cost such a crazy amount of money, I would have gotten one every month.

And now, I regret it. And I’ve felt that way for several years now. Since I hit rock bottom in 2021, found Jesus, and decided to give my life to Him, I’ve regretted those tattoos. Not because I think there’s anything morally wrong with them. There may be people who believe we shouldn’t disfigure, alter, or decorate the body God gave us with tattoos, but I’m not one of them. What is or isn’t God’s will is between me and Him, and between you and Him, and in my opinion, general dogmas don’t belong here (or anywhere else). There are plenty of Christians who, out of complete devotion and a good relationship with God, decide to get their bodies covered in tattoos. If it feels right, why not, right? But for me, it doesn’t today. For me, those tattoos are a reminder of a terrible time. Years and years during which I was at odds with myself and in a bad relationship, but couldn’t or wouldn’t admit it. That is what they remind me of. The pain, the loneliness, the despair, the sadness, the attempt to be something or someone and feel good. My tattoos are a mirror held up to me every day, but one I’d rather not look into. And yet I have to. There’s no way around it.

About three years ago, during confession, I told the priest that I would so desperately like to erase the past, but that it keeps resurfacing and I simply cannot escape it. He reminded me that Jesus still had His stigmata after the resurrection. Jesus—the very embodiment of innocence—was nailed to the cross, died, was laid in the tomb, and came back to life three days later. When He appeared to His apostles again, He still had the wounds from His crucifixion in His hands, feet, and side. They didn’t suddenly disappear, but became a sign of what God can do for us: after death comes the resurrection. New life is possible, but the old isn’t suddenly wiped away because of it.

This new life is what I want to focus on today. I can’t suddenly make the old disappear—my tattoos are proof of that. But instead of focusing on how awful I think they are, I can also see them as the victory Christ has won for me: the old has passed away; the new has come.

Today, in this new life with Him, I feel the same need to express myself as I did before. Only now I do it in a different way and from a different perspective. As I wrote earlier, today I embroider my own clothes, making what I wear unique and personal. They are designs I have chosen, created, or adapted myself, and which I can wear with pride today. They do not come from pain or sadness, but from inner peace and creative strength. ‘The things we do, do things to us,’ I read somewhere recently. That certainly applies to creative hobbies. They change me and give me strength. And the advantage of embroidered clothes versus tattoos? If they no longer suit me, if I’ve outgrown them, I can pass them on to someone else for whom they do feel right at that moment. That way, I don’t have to walk around for a lifetime in my self-created prison, but I can free myself from what no longer belongs to me and grow into something new. To die, and rise again, and do so over and over.
Amen. (Sorry, I just couldn’t resist!)