I never thought my first tattoo would come at this stage of my life. I had always imagined it would mean something different. For years, I told myself I’d get one. I sketched designs, pictured the placement, imagined the sting of the needle. But always—always—I put it off.
At first, I told myself I’d wait until after I had children. I thought about placing it near my belly button, as a way to honor pregnancy, the body I believed would one day stretch and swell with life. I even wondered: what would happen to the tattoo as my belly grew? Would it distort, then snap back after?
So I decided to wait.
But the children never came.
The Dream That Got Postponed
Back in Paris, after leaving a marriage that collapsed because the Ex no longer wanted children, I met Ali. He was my first boyfriend after divorce, an architect who could sketch anything with precision. I told him about the tattoo I wanted, and he drew it for me.
I adored it. It felt like a promise — proof that a dream was still possible.
But, like so many other dreams, I tucked it away. Waiting. Always waiting for the moment that never arrived.
A New Symbol Found Me
This year something shifted. One night, scrolling Pinterest, I saw a design that stopped me in my tracks. Spirals. Continuous circles.
I knew it immediately — not because I’d seen it before, but because I had drawn it over and over again in the margins of notebooks.
The caption said it represented happiness.
I paused. Happiness. A word I had almost forgotten belonged to me. Not motherhood. Not pregnancy. Not even the deferred dream of a belly button tattoo. Just happiness, spiraled into permanence.
The Tattoo as Ritual
On my birthday, with my sister and my husband beside me, I finally did it. I sat in the chair. Felt the sting. Watched my skin transform.
The tattoo isn’t just ink. It’s a ritual. A ritual of reclamation. A way of taking back the dream I had postponed for too long. A way of saying: my body is still mine. My joy is still mine.
Some people might call me childless, but that word has never told the whole story. It feels like lack, as if my worth is measured only by what I don’t have. The truth is, I am childfree not by choice . That reality has forced me to grieve in ways I never thought possible. But it has also pushed me to create new rituals, new symbols, and new ways of honoring a life that doesn’t look like the one I planned. These rituals are part of healing after infertility and letting go of parenthood—reminders that I can reclaim identity in different, meaningful ways.
What It Means Now
This tattoo is permanent. So is my commitment to honoring postponed dreams — not just the ones that never came true, but the ones I can still choose for myself.
The spiral etched into my skin is more than art. It’s a promise. A reminder that healing doesn’t just happen in journals and tears. Sometimes, healing looks like ink. Sometimes, it looks like choosing joy anyway.
Because even when parenthood is not part of our story, we are still here. We are still worthy of rituals. We are still allowed happiness.
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