Sacred Scars

My mother used to say that only people who hated themselves got tattooed—

“Why would anyone who loved themselves ruin their body with marks and scars?”

I didn’t realize how deeply those words had rooted in me.

I didn’t realize how much I still longed for her approval—

until years later, 15 years after she had passed, when I received my throat ritual tattoo.

By then, I was already heavily tattooed.

My body had long been a canvas of my story, of my healing, of my becoming.

But something about this one—the throat—opened something far deeper.

What followed was a descent.

A dark night of the soul.

As the needle pierced in and out of my skin, I heard voices—echoes from my past.

My mother’s among them.

“Did I ruin myself?” I wondered.

The experience spun me out, unraveling the parts of me still tethered to old beliefs.

But what I came to understand is this:

That moment was a reclamation.

This was never about destruction.

It was about choosing myself—fully.

These marks were not made in rebellion, but in reverence.

Each one, a decision made by me, for me.

For the past versions of myself who felt voiceless.

For the woman I am now, who dares to speak.

For the future me, who will carry these sacred symbols as a testament of becoming.

These aren’t scars.

They’re stories.

They’re sacred.

They’re mine.