Last week, as discussed, I got a tattoo on my forearm. And I was excited.
Then, I went to Oklahoma City for the weekend. Soon enough, I found myself seated on a row amongst my family at my cousin’s high school graduation. I glanced down the row. I saw a lot of forearms. Aside from mine, none were tattooed. I made an inference, then a logical leap: I think I’m the only person with a tattoo in my family.
The subject didn’t come up much over the weekend. I caught one cursory glance. Nothing judgmental. Just an exercise in record-keeping, just as I’d done at graduation.
It’s a funny thing though, being different. Everyone says they want to be different. Everyone says they want to individuate. But once we’ve actually done the damn thing and quit an expected career or gotten ourselves inked up, we feel worse than we did before we did the damn thing. Doubt seeps into our core. The tribe calls.
For a few hours last weekend, I wanted to fit back in, and that’s how I knew I’d never regret this tattoo. Because previously, across all domains of my life, I chose to keep the peace. I mollified desires. I renewed my vows with the tribe regularly. And once the dust settled and the tribe had moved onto new business and I was left to myself, considering who I was and what I’d chosen to do, I didn’t care about my belonging; I ached to be my own person.
When we choose something we know to be a true reflection of who we are and we differentiate, even by a little, doubt follows. And we’ll gladly live in doubt—every second of every day—as long as we never have to wonder who we really are.
To livin’ a life we love,
Ryan Fightmaster, MD