I got my first tattoo at the age of 43, and I thought my dad was going to kill me.

He was not thrilled, but he didn’t react quite as badly as I feared. He didn’t like it, but he seemed to accept that what was done was done. And I do make an effort to put my watch over that so it’s not always obvious.

Most people don’t realize I have ink, even though that was just a first of several. Each one is small and each one is very personal.

I know it’s not everyone’s cup of tea, and I’m OK with that. In my parents’ generation, people who had tattoos were usually frowned upon. It was assumed people with “ink” were somehow unsavory. Even my husband was not on board at first. Fortunately, he loves me, ink and all, so he’s made his peace with it.

And fortunately, attitudes have changed over time. In fact, the two new ones I just got this week, the hubs likes.

Birds have always been a big thing with me relating to family members who have died. It seems any time someone departs, there are birds around for long periods of time, keeping me company even through the night. After both of my grandparents died, mockingbirds were everywhere. After my dad died, hummingbirds began to hang around. I already love hummingbirds, so I found a small, beautiful design and held on to it.

And that small beauty now graces my right arm, about the size of a half dollar.

In addition, I have always been extremely proud of my husband’s career as a police officer and chief, and his badge number is 102. I’ve thought about maybe having that number put on my ring finger, but tattoos on fingers are hard. The ink can spread sometimes and it definitely fades.

So I had it put on the top of my foot. Anyone who has tattoos on their feet understands what that means. The feet are skin and nerves and bone, and tattoos on the feet are some of the more painful. Fortunately, this is a very small one, so he was done in five minutes.

The hubs loves the hummingbird, thinks this one is beautiful, and he is flattered that I wanted so much to do something to honor him.

It’s been quite some time since my last tattoo. Several years ago, a young woman who is like a daughter to me, who has her own share of ink, asked if we could have matching tattoos done. So on my right hip is a mother and child that matches the one she has. That followed matching semi-colon tattoos with a friend representing the fight against suicide.

There are a few others, each having meaning, none of them large and most of them out of sight.

For me, they are reminders of life, of love, of strength, of family. They are essentially beautiful scars that I carry that I can look to in difficult times to remember those I love, who love me, and why I need to pick myself up and carry on.

And the endorphins that come when the needle hits my skin isn’t a bad thing, either. Yes, tattoos hurt. Some worse than others but anyone who says they don’t is kidding. And they are not to be taken lightly, and should be considered permanent, because having them removed is not easy. As noted, they are not for everyone. My dear husband doesn’t have a single one and never will.

But for me, they have helped me deal with loss and with pain in a way that has been a tremendous relief. If you see me and you’re curious, ask, I’ll show you. Just do me one favor. If it’s not your thing, like all other personal choices, please leave me the joy and ease it brings, without criticism. I promise I won’t try to talk you into getting a tattoo.

But if you ever decide to get one, and you need a hand to hold, let me know. I’ve got you.