On the first Sunday of December, I decided to get my first tattoo.

For anyone who knows me, this probably comes as a shock, and I want to start here by saying I understand your concern. I mean really, let’s face it, this is probably the most rebellious thing I’ve ever done in my 20 years of living. A lot of people certainly wouldn’t have expected it from me. I know it doesn’t exactly live up to the image I assume most people have of me in their heads, either. You know, the one where I’m the youngest daughter, little Ms. 4.0 GPA who’s never been in trouble.

The thing is, though, that I’ve been thinking about getting a tattoo since middle school, if not earlier. As a kid, I loved those airbrush and temporary tattoos that you could get at birthday parties and carnivals. I grew up with the artsy kids. I had tattooed friends in high school and I have tattooed friends now in college. Across five jobs, I’ve had tattooed co-workers and bosses. I have tattooed family members, too, and I hope that they’re reading this because it’s something we never talk about.

I don’t feel like our tattoos are deserving of their bad rep. We’re not different people for having them. They’re just a part of our bodies. With or without them, you’re still you and I’m still me. I’m still someone’s daughter, someone’s little sister. I’m still Dean’s List material and a proficient writer. So I can say to you right now, with confidence, that there is nothing about my decision that I regret. I know who I am, and I know I’m going to be just fine.

I know this because I thought long and hard about my tattoo. I considered it from every angle at least a dozen times, if not more. It wasn’t a spontaneous choice brought on by a semester in Europe and I certainly didn’t do it to spite anyone. It was something I was considering a long time before I boarded my plane, and, more importantly, it was something I did just for me. My tattoo is my permanent memento of Dublin, a city which took me in so graciously and inspired me in ways I never thought possible.

It’s a token to my growth both as a writer and as a person. I’ll forever be wearing the words of James Joyce on my upper arm as though they are my heart upon my sleeve and I am proud of them. They mean the world to me and to ask me how I think I’ll feel about them 10 years from now would be the same as asking me if I think I’ll regret studying abroad, if I’ll regret all the words I’ve ever written or all the poems I’ve ever read.

And how could you ever ask someone to forsake their own heart like that? I don’t regret this ink any more than I regret the ink I’ve already seeped into countless pages of writing. And yes, it did hurt, for those of you who are still curious. Art always hurts. Keeping that art a secret, though?

That would hurt me far worse.