Still Blank at 35: Why I’ve Never Gotten a Tattoo (And Why I Still Might One Day)

I don’t have any tattoos. Not a single one. And at 35, that sometimes feels like a rare thing.

It’s not because I don’t like them. I actually love tattoos. I love piercings too. There’s something about body art that has always captivated me—how it can hold meaning, express something wordless, or simply exist as beautiful art on skin.

But even though I admire it deeply, and even though I’ve wanted it for myself at times, I’ve never seriously pursued it. Outside of having double piercings in my ears and a monroe piercing I wore in my late teens, I haven’t delved far into it.

I’ve honestly never even thought seriously about getting a tattoo. I’ve had ideas—little flickers of inspiration that ran through my head. A phrase. A symbol. A feeling. But I’ve never taken the step to plan something out. Never created a design. Never booked a consultation. I think I just let the ideas pass by like clouds—acknowledging them, appreciating them, but never grabbing hold.

One phrase I’ve always loved is “Live Unapologetically.” It’s something that’s stuck with me over the years—something I’ve returned to in quiet moments when I needed clarity or courage. But I’ve never committed to it in ink. Why? Because as soon as the idea arises, I overthink it. Is it too cliché? Not timeless enough? Will I still connect to it in ten years? And that right there—that is the reason I’ve never gotten a tattoo.

It’s not the pain. That’s never been the thing holding me back.

It’s me.

It’s the part of me that’s a perfectionist. The part that’s ever-evolving. The part that doesn’t want to be frozen in one version of myself forever. I shift, I grow, I outgrow. What speaks to me in one season might feel completely irrelevant in another. I know that about myself. And so, permanence feels complicated.

I also don’t want to be perceived. Maybe that sounds odd, given the nature of tattoos. But it’s true. As a kid, I didn’t express myself much through words. I used the way I dressed, the makeup I wore, the energy I gave off. And because of that, I was often misunderstood. People made assumptions. I lost friends. I don’t know if my outward expression was the cause of those losses, but somewhere along the way, my brain connected those dots.

So now, even as an adult who knows better, I still pause before making myself too visible. I still struggle with letting others see me—really see me—for who I am without the noise of perception clouding it.

And if I were to get a tattoo, it would have to be intentional. Thoughtful. Not just a quote I once liked or an aesthetic choice—it would need to be a piece of art. Something crafted. Beautiful. Personal. And that kind of tattoo? It costs money. As it should. Because with quality comes cost. I would want to invest in something incredible—something that would still make me pause years from now and think, Yes. That’s still me.

But I’ve never done that. Because I haven’t found the thing. The one that sticks. The one that feels worth the weight of forever.

So here I am: 35, tattoo-free. A blank canvas, not out of fear, not out of disinterest—but out of deep thought. A quiet pause. A search for something that would feel like a permanent reflection of someone who’s constantly becoming.

Maybe that’s why I haven’t done it. Or maybe I’m just waiting. And maybe, one day, I’ll be ready to wear a version of myself that feels complete enough to hold in ink.

Until then, I’ll admire the art on others. And keep honoring the version of me who lives and evolves unapologetically—even without the tattoo.