There is something profoundly holy about sitting still while someone presses a vibrating needle into your skin, permanently altering your body in a way you chose. Something sacred in the act of turning pain into art, into story, into testimony. For some people, tattoos are decoration. For others, rebellion. But for me, tattoos have always been a form of truth-telling—a sacred, defiant reclaiming of self when everything else felt out of control.

I did not get inked on a whim or to mark a dare. I got inked because something in me needed to speak, and words were not enough. My tattoos are not only art but autobiography. They are chapters of my becoming, worn like armor and offered like prayer.

I remember my first. A fairy, sketched by Donelan—the brilliant cartoonist whose work graced the pages of The Advocate magazine in the 1980s and ’90s. She was not dainty or passive. She was fierce and ethereal, wings angled like she was ready to bolt from judgment or dance in it. That fairy was my quiet way of saying: Yes, I am gay. Yes, I am still magic. I was young and unsure, but when that needle buzzed to life, I felt certainty for the first time in years. That little inked sprite helped me reclaim something vital: the right to be seen, not silenced.

It would be years before I realized how healing that moment truly was.

The Triangle That Held Me Together

My second tattoo came at a crossroads. I was no longer just fighting for acceptance—I was fighting to survive. Designed by one of my closest friends, it was a tribal piece made entirely of sharply angled triangles, all pointing inward toward a small, defiant pink triangle at the center. The design was raw, geometric, almost mathematical in its intensity.

That pink triangle, historically used by Nazis to identify and persecute queer men, had since been reclaimed by LGBTQIA+ activists as a symbol of resistance and pride. In the center of my own chaos, that pink triangle became my anchor. I was fighting addiction, grieving losses that did not come with funerals, and trying to rebuild a life after incarceration and shame. But the ink reminded me that survival could be beautiful—and that pain did not make me any less worthy of joy.

I still run my fingers across that piece when the world feels too heavy. It reminds me of who I am, who I was, and who I fought to become.

Campaigning for Hope, Wearing My Belief

The Obama logo was different. It came from a place of hope—not survival. I got that one during the 2007 campaign, back when we dared to believe that America could be better. I was volunteering, making calls, knocking on doors. I saw what hope could do to a tired community. And I wanted that hope etched into me forever.

People still ask me, “Would you get that tattoo today?” As if hindsight should erase history. I tell them, Absolutely. That ink is not about the man—it is about the moment. The possibility. The movement. Tattoos are not endorsements. They are timestamps of our truth. They are who we were at the moment we said: This matters. I matter.

Kanji, Journey, and the Language of the Soul

There is a quiet power in simplicity. That is why I chose Japanese kanji for one of my later tattoos. It translates to “Journey of Life.” Just three characters, barely a few inches long, sitting discreetly on my back.

But do not let the simplicity fool you—those three words carry the weight of every hardship I have endured. They whisper of nights I almost did not survive, of mornings I stumbled through withdrawal and regret, of years lost in systems built to punish, not restore. They also hum of laughter, of second chances, of finding family in unexpected places.

When I see those characters, I remember that life is not a destination. And every scar, every triumph, every mistake is part of that sacred unfolding. It is becoming!

The Bronx That Raised Me

One of my most visible pieces is a large tattoo of Bronx from the Gargoyles comic book series. For those unfamiliar, Bronx is not a winged gargoyle—he is a doglike beast. Fiercely loyal. Extreamly powerful. Wordless. He represents instinct, protection, and the fiercest love.

Bronx was my early adulthood and teenage favorite. He was also the guardian I wished I had in real life—a creature that could fend off harm, snarl at abusers, and sit beside me when silence felt like the only safe option. Getting him inked on my body was like honoring that inner protector I once had to become for myself.

When people see Bronx and laugh or ask why I would ink a cartoon on my body, I do not explain. Because I do not owe anyone a defense for the symbols that helped save me.

Tattoos as Testimony, Not Trend

People ask me often why I keep getting tattoos. Why I “mark up” my body like a canvas no one asked to paint. My answer is always the same: Because every inch of ink is a truth I refuse to hide. Each one is a decision to live. To remember. To heal.

For years, I was treated like a problem. Like I was too broken, too angry, too loud, too much. But these tattoos? They are not a rebellion against my past. They are a record of how I survived it.

They are not just tattoos. They are therapy. In a world that once told me to shrink, to disappear, to apologize—my tattoos let me take up space. They let me say, I am still here.

And as it turns out, I am not the only one who feels that way.

Recent studies suggest that tattoos can actually improve mental health—especially among trauma survivors. From increasing self-esteem to helping with emotional regulation, the science is beginning to confirm what so many of us already know: the needle can heal.

If you are curious about the research behind tattoos and mental health—why some psychologists and recovery experts now recognize tattoos as part of trauma recovery and identity integration—check out my deep dive into the science here:
👉 Read: Why Tattoos Might Be Good for Your Mental Health—According to Science

Because healing is not always clean or clinical. Sometimes, healing is loud, messy, and unapologetically permanent.