The Truth About Regret

It's about a tattoo and a marriage and a mess in between.

Buckle up my friends. This is a long one and I’m grateful you’re down for the ride. <3

The Wendy’s parking lot in midtown is the best place to leave a car overnight.

Off to the side, by the dumpsters is prime parking and no tow truck has ever hooked a rig back there. It’s our go-to spot for long nights out downtown.

The only clothes on my body that are actually mine are my undies. I live in a house, The House of Love to be exact, with three other girls. We’re all in our early 20s and we have full range of each other’s closets. I only have brothers and I pretty much always feel internally insecure about what I’m wearing so this is my dream scenario.

It’s another night out in Downtown Nashville. This is before the hoards of tourists and when only the locals occasionally referred to it as Nash Vegas. The honkytonks are rocking, the booze is flowing, and our high-heeled feet are stomping down the street without a care in the world. There’s a line out front at The Stage but it’s NBD because we know about the back entrance and they know us back there. So around the back we go and within three minutes we step into the bar, immediately embraced by body heat and country music.

The band is up on stage in their Baby Gap white t-shirts and painted-on jeans, singing a Keith Urban cover that rivals the Aussie himself. This is Nashville in 2011, every singer and band on Broadway can actually play and we get to drunkenly bask in the glory of good music every night of the week. The sound of a million dreams.

We run to the front of the stage to scream-sing along and shortly thereafter Long Island Iced Teas in tall, doubled Dixie cups are miraculously delivered to our clapping hands. The floor is sticky as we jump and stomp along to the guitar melody. The old timers are sitting on their designated bar stools tapping along and tipping back their glasses.

I toss my hair, shimmy my whole body, and feel completely alive. This is what being 22 feels like.

I met Lee Singer when I was 22.

We were both new-ish to Nashville and gave Match.com a try to meet people in places other than the drunken bars of Downtown. Which was of course so much freaking fun, just not always the place where you met your lobster.

Our first “official” photo together on January 7th, 2012 at, despite our best efforts, a bar in Downtown Nashville. The shirt I’m wearing is not mine and House of Love shenanigans are taking place behind us. We used to be young.

The House of Love was on a first and last name basis with all love interests. When you’re keeping up with the dating life of four 20-something gals, there needs to be a system. And because Lee Singer sounds like lead singer, perfectly on brand for Nashville, it stuck.

We fell in love as young people do and actually started to build a solid, trusting foundation. Then on my 23rd birthday, I walked into a tattoo shop on a complete whim and I got a tattoo that really didn’t mean that much. It was just a dumb, fun thing to do.

I strutted through the door of his studio apartment and proudly exclaimed “Look what I got today!” He was utterly shocked.

I got my first tattoo just a few days after my 18th birthday.

It’s a Gemini symbol on my lower back. It’s ok, you can call it a tramp stamp because it is. And you know what, I actually still really love that little tattoo.

I hid it from my parents for the better part of a year until my dad saw it while I was cleaning out the back seat of my old Toyota Camry (RIP Phoebe) in low-rise jeans. It was 2008 and those jeans were cool at the time (which is where they should stay IMHO), so my tattoo really had no chance of staying hidden for that much longer.

My dad was cool about it. He had three tattoos of his own that I always thought were pretty badass so he sort of just laughed the whole thing off. My one condition: Do NOT tell mom.

He let that cat out of the bag not too long after and needless to say, Carol was pissed. She begged me not to get any more tattoos, listing all her reasons why, mainly the fact that I wasn’t going to think they were that cool in 20 years. I was all sorry mom, my body my choice, and didn’t take her advice.

Turns out, moms are right about pretty much everything.

The years passed and as I entered my mid-thirties I sat with the idea of turning that silly tattoo on the inside of my arm into something new. Then it finally dawned on me. Influenced a bit by what was trendy on Etsy, and me becoming a mom while grieving the loss of my dad, I decided to cover up the tattoo with a bouquet of birth flowers for our family.

ICYMI, each month of the year has a flower that corresponds with it and the season. A flower for Quinn, Lee, me, and Winston. Our dog is our child and he happens to have the same birth month as me so there you have it. And one last addition, the state flower of Tennessee where our family was built and which also happens to be the same flower for the birth month of my dad.

I thought about this for a really long time, for the better part of a year. I even weighed the option of instead getting the small tattoo removed and just being done with the whole thing. Oh dear hindsight why must you come after the fact?

My imagination and visualization skills really took me to a wonderful place. My default optimism serves me well a lot of the time, giving me rose-colored glasses to believe, and sometimes even know, that things will work out. This was going to be a beautiful piece of permanent art that was meaningful to me. It was going to be a thought-out, intentional adult decision.

I sat down with Lee Singer, gave him my whole sparkly schpeel, and asked him to support me. Because he’s the best man I’ve ever known, he said he would. Not just like, immediately. He did have questions and there was a proper conversation about it. But despite his personal feelings, he believed me when I said this was important to me.

This was unfamiliar territory.

The only basis I had when it came to getting a tattoo was printing a photo off the internet in the early 2000s and bringing it to a complete stranger who said “Sure let’s do this.” Needless to say, the process of getting a piece of art basically commissioned was new to me. And because I wasn’t familiar, and at the same time so wrapped up in the vision I had created in my mind, I forgot my rational self and didn’t take a step back to give myself space to be more of a collaborator.

I even had Lee come with me, with the intention that having another rational person there would keep me grounded, and that this decision would remain thoughtful. That was a big ask for him, and he showed up because that’s the man he is.

And to be clear, there is zero shade or ill will toward the artist who did this tattoo for me. They were lovely and extremely talented. Could the lines of communication have been a bit more transparent? Sure. Could I have asked more questions and listened to my inner voice better? Absolutely.

Tattoos of this nature take a long time and there really aren’t too many details to recount except for when I looked in the mirror mid-way through and the voice that resides in the space between my heart and gut immediately screamed: I hate this.

You can always tell the character of a man by the way he keeps his word.

That was my daily reminder and lesson from my dad, constantly. I can still hear his voice saying it to me while I sat on the kitchen counter and he fixed something I broke, or while we sat side by side at the dining table and he balanced his checkbook with pencil and paper.

Integrity has been a core value of mine for as long as I can remember. I think it’s both how I’m wired and what I learned. My mom is just as much of a strong, integral force as my dad was.

I am freaking proud and honored to be the person who says what she means, means what she says, and does what she says she will.

But damn, has keeping my word royally fucked me sometimes.

I tread a tricky slope of standing with integrity and people-pleasing. Is it my tight grip on my core values? Is it being a woman in the world? Is it a messy mix of all of it and then some?

Whatever it was, I continued with the tattoo, something I knew wasn’t going to be for me, because I didn’t want to walk away from a commitment and hurt someone’s feelings.

And then it happened. A panic attack that felt like I was dying.

Anxiety is a pretty new thing for me. It was a postpartum symptom, then my fourth trimester ended when the COVID-19 pandemic began. Now it’s just stuck with me, you know being a human and raising one in today’s world and all.

So when I got home with the finished tattoo on my arm, and Quinn’s immediate 3-year-old response was “When are you taking that off?” I spiraled fast and went down hard.

I sat on the floor in front of the full-length mirror in my closet and stared. My anxious gaze darted between looking myself directly in the eyes and at the giant, dark, heavy collection of lines on the inside of my arm.

Eyes to the tattoo: What have I done? This is not what I wanted.

Eyes to my eyes: You’re ok. I’m not ok.

Eyes to the tattoo: This is NOT it. I am not the person with a giant tattoo on their arm.

Eyes to my eyes: Breathe. Shit this is bad.

Eyes to the tattoo: I will not want this when I’m 40. Let’s just give it some time to get used to.

Eyes to my eyes: Let’s just give it some time to get used to. No. No. Nooooo.

My brain was racing at a speed that had me tripping all over myself and not able to focus at all. Completely detached, I got through the rest of the evening, the toddler bedtime routine, and found myself lying on top of my comforter staring at the ceiling.

I could not settle down. It was as if I was vibrating with hazardous electrical currents in my veins. One wrong move and I was going up in flames.

Sweat was slicked all over my body yet I was freezing. My head was spinning yet I was completely still. Vomit was climbing the back of my throat yet I couldn’t open my mouth. I was mentally exhausted yet I couldn’t sleep a wink.

My breath was impossible to regulate and I kept bolting upright, disoriented and afraid. This was my first ever proper panic attack and it was no joke.

Somewhere deep inside I knew what all this was about. The truth has a very specific way of being unrelenting. But after all that I’d done to make this thing a reality. All the ways I’d asked Lee to show up for me. All the meaning I had envisioned and wanted this to hold. I couldn’t possibly succumb to the truth because what would that say about me? Who am I if I don’t keep my word and have integrity in my decision-making?

I finally let myself say it out loud.

Sitting on the edge of our bed, after a night that felt like I had cardio-danced with death and just barely made it out of the club alive, I looked Lee Singer in the eyes and spoke the truth.

I regret getting this tattoo. If I could have it removed right now, I would. No questions asked. This was a terrible decision and I hate myself for making it.

Being vulnerable and open and terrified in front of this man, who was once a boy I fell in love with at 22 years old, felt im-freaking-possible AND it was the only option.

In my lowest moment of shame and regret, he embraced me. Both literally and figuratively. I ugly-cried my face off and he held me while rubbing my back. He didn’t say “I told you so”. He didn’t try to remind me of his feelings and opinions about the whole thing.

I felt immense relief in finally admitting to myself the regret that had been consuming me. And by being seen in the thick of it, I had unlocked a new level of partnership, respect, and understanding with the person I’ve chosen to build a life with over the past 12 years.

Despite how awful I felt about myself and the decision I had made, it was the act of being witnessed and being received that gave me just enough strength to pick myself up off the floor and be reminded that shame doesn’t get to win.

Hindsight is 20/20. Ugghh.

It’s been just over a year since I got the tattoo and almost the same amount of time I’ve spent removing it. FYI it takes a long ass time to remove a good-sized tattoo. I’m not even done yet and I’m six laser sessions deep.

It’s easy to look back on the whole ordeal now and think of all the things that could have changed the outcome.

Saying something like “I think I need 24 hours to think about this” and walking away.

Giving Lee actual space to voice his feelings in the moment instead of suffocating him with my grand delusions.

Taking a goddamn minute to just pause and assess before saying yes.

Cue: If I could turn back time.

But as we all know, I can not. And so I’m on the years-long journey to remove permanent ink on my body.

For a while, I got so wrapped up in the idea that this decision I made was an indicator that I was completely lost. I had no connection to myself, my wants, my desires, and I had a First Class ticket to Unhinged City. My integrity, my core value, was wildly misplaced. That this isn’t about the tattoo, it’s about ME. Not that I did something wrong, that I am wrong. When shame teams up with my over-indulgent imagination we go down real fast.

I’ve attempted to reframe this whole experience as a growth opportunity, as something I can inject with humor and a fitting song lyric to find the lesson in. Perhaps this escapade has been a slight fork in the road that’s allowed me to reorient towards being more compassionate with myself.

But what if it’s just that I made a wrong decision? What if it’s just about the tattoo and that’s all? I made a mistake, and while coming to that seemingly simple conclusion has me elbows-deep in self-loathing, I’m a human and that’s just what we do and how we grow.¹

If you really like silver linings, like the lessons at the end of a 1990s after-school special (my friend I feel you because so do I), perhaps it’s that in a moment of pure regret and shame, when all the chips are down and you’re about ready to figuratively die, the only thing that’s gonna get you out of that dark hole is vulnerability and truth. And even though that’s terrifying and horrendous, take that road. Because on the other side of it is love and connection.

In practice or in theory…?

Do I apply what I’ve learned from this experience? Maybe. Sometimes. I float between applying life lessons in meaningful ways, sort of finding peace with hindsight, and awareness hell². My hope is that in a few more years when time has given me distance from this ordeal and I enter my forties, I’ll finally step into the land of not caring so much anymore. I hear about this peaceful place so beautifully from the older women in my life.

I’m still on this journey. I have at least three more laser sessions, all of which need eight weeks of healing in between until I hopefully reach full removal status. Check in with me come June when I turn 35 and inevitably get reflective around that milestone.

Final-ish thoughts.

Marriage is hard. I’m immensely grateful to have a partner who is willing to be down in the muck with me, who’s been by my side through growing up, and who’s here to witness my becoming. As my girl Taylor says: “I haven’t met the new me yet.”

Shame grows in silence. And regret isn’t talked about enough. I’m grateful for the process of writing and sharing, and to any of you who have read or listened.

Truth is, I’ve spent almost a month trying to find the words to wrap this up poetically and poignantly. But everything keeps feeling forced. And, only being one year into the acceptance of this regret feels like… Should I say it? Ok, I’m just going to say it… The rest is still unwritten.

If you connected with this or it felt relatable, giving it a “like” or sharing directly with a friend is so very appreciated. I post new entries once or twice a month and you can catch up on my other thoughts about boobs, mothering, the internet, and finding meaning in it all until the next one arrives. <3

1. The simplicity of this came from a conversation with my mom. I was terrified to call her and tell her what I’d done and where my head was at. Shame was still the driver at this point, and I really thought she was going to lose her shit. Because she is an amazing mom with more years of wisdom and experience than my own, she was calm, collected, and loving. Another moment of love and connection as an antidote to shame.

2. I first heard this term in Minka Kelly’s memoir. And Meredith Baker explains it a bit more in this LinkedIn post. I don’t know her but I appreciate the way she frames it.