Throughout my years encapsulated in my small town, I was a self-proclaimed “good girl.” I thought of myself as a teacher’s pet, always striving to stand on top of the lustrous mountain of an A, eyes narrowed with the aim of having the best essay among the class. I tattled on those who I deemed as troublemakers. I was athletic, inspired, academic. I adorned myself with glossy titles that, in actuality, were just words strewn together boosting a small-town ego. National Honor Society. Berkshire League All-Star. High Honors. Young Writer’s Celebration. I tried to fit my tiny feet within the footsteps of my brothers before me, confused and frustrated when I realized our footprints weren’t the same.

I felt picturesque in a sense, trying to artfully paint myself following a paint-by-numbers of what kind of person I thought I should be. I was meticulous with blending colors, skillful with brushes. I was obsessed with maintaining my image, with self-preservation and protecting a reputation.

I never truly realized the entire time I was hell-bent on evening my strokes, perfecting the flick of my wrist, I was coloring within lines that didn’t even exist.

I searched through endless recipe books before I realized I wasn’t built like brownies and I couldn’t follow instructions to ensure my mold.

I started writing a piece, untitled and unfinished, about a year ago. It was amidst a time of self-reflection, a time of darkness so enveloping I was absolutely sure my shadow had swallowed me whole. I wrote:

You are not the good girl.
You are a bundle of preconceived notions your mother and father instilled within the little sapling of your brain when you were the fragile age of six. You are a set of beliefs drilled into your mentality, placed on a pedestal by those who were near and dear to you.
You are the stigma of the high grades and eloquent speech.
You are a nose upturned so slight only your conscious notices. You are an invisible ego thriving on academic praise from the caws from authoritative figures.

Good girl. Goody-two-shoes. The phrases roll over my tongue like a hard candy, sweet like a jolly rancher making my teeth ache. Was I good girl? Am I good girl? What even is a good girl? Who the hell even cares?

I’m not unaware to assumption people might have made after the first three semesters of my college career. The first week of college I took a bus to Portsmouth and got a tattoo; my parents didn’t discover its existence until nearly seven months later. In January, I took the same bus back to Portsmouth and got my nose pierced. Earlier that month, I’d chopped my hair. The following month I fell in love with a guy I’d normally never go after; I dated a bad boy. I drank too much. I partied so much so my fourteen-year-old self would wince. I dyed my hair. I chased boys I had no business even walking with. I fell into line with “the college experience” and I let the bubble devour my innocence.

I could feel judgment seeping through my skin, wondering what people though happened to the girl I used to be. I was rebelling, I had to be, right?

I was adamant on having my nose pierced, so much so I had it re-pierced three times and stuck out a nasty keloid for over two months just to finally wear the illusive hoop – despite popular belief, this is not me shedding a snakeskin to metaphorically flip of my parents who said no when I’d asked them two years prior. I’d always wanted the piercing. It makes me feel beautiful.

My tattoo is not a form of rebellion. In fact, it is an act of embrace, an act of expression in one of the most beautiful, permanent forms. I told myself at the age of thirteen, I would get a tattoo as a reward for beating self-harm, but only after a year of being completely clean: no slip-ups, no alternative methods, absolutely clean. I could look at it when I had urges, when I was ridden with sadness and overwhelmed with the blues and shake all the cobwebs of depression away. Maybe for just a moment, but in that moment I could save myself from harm. It would be my beacon of resounding, however quiet, strength. I silently locked my pinkies together, acknowledged the promise and held it to my chest. It appears on the outside as an impulsive decision: I was eighteen and I got inked the first weekend at college, but it was a long promise finally flying out of its cocoon.

Tattoos are a symbol of expression for me. Once I got my tattoo, I loved my body so much more. I’d never really enjoyed my body, cold to true appreciation. However, my tattoo made me feel like my skin was silk and my body was radiant. Slowly, I start to love my body more and more every day and my tattoo is a huge part of that. Sorry Mom and Dad, but the roman numerals decorating the right side of my ribcage will not be the only ink to mark my body. My tattoos, present and future, are a thorough art investment.

I see my tattoos and the few piercings I have as a form of body positivity. I feel so much more comfortable. I feel beautiful. I’m not sticking it to the man. I’m not resisting my old folks. I’m not throwing shade to my sixteen-year-old perpetually “good” self. I am evolving. I am transforming, constantly changing and shifting with the tides of the sea pulled by the moon. I’ve made questionable choices; I will not argue that. I am confident in the lessons I’ve learned from my mistakes. The bottom line here is I’m not turning a blind eye on the person I used to be. I’m not holding my middle fingers up to my parents by doing things differently, by embracing and adapting a millennial heart. The bottom line is I am not a rebel.

This being said: you don’t need to like it. You don’t have to like my hair color, gush about my tattoo or admire the gold hoop in my nose. You could think it’s distasteful. You’re entitled to your opinion. All I ask is you respect my choices.

I’ve said a few times now, to a handful of people, I finally feel like I’m embracing the person I’ve always wanted to be, the woman I was always meant to be. For the first time, in perhaps nearly a decade, my heart feels light. My soul is happy.

I like tattoos and I will not only have one. I enjoy changing my hair; maybe a year from now I’ll be blonde, maybe three years down the road I’ll ditch the blonde for a deep mahogany. My body “modifications” are not synonymous with a flame of rebellious youth. Perhaps, instead, they are akin to something much stronger and dangerous than an untamed flame. Perhaps, instead, they are aligned with happiness, body positivity.

What a thought.