Yes, you read that right, folks. I got my first tattoo at 13 years old.

My parents have them all over, from the pinup girls on my mom's arm to my name being the first tattoo my dad got (which, ironically, I was there for as a newborn—it was actually my first public outing). My parents always joked as I started getting older and seeing them come home with new tattoos at least once a year, that I would eventually want a bunch too.

The day finally came. My mom came home with a new one and I remember saying, at 13 years old, "Mom, dad, I want a tattoo." They laughed and said "it's going to hurt and you're still growing, which means that it will stretch and fade the bigger you get." I mean, they weren't wrong, that's how it works—but I'm glad that I didn't get the tattoo somewhere that would grow too much. I went with what I believe was still my best choice (seeing as how it has been six years and still looks exactly the same): my foot. No, I did not get something that covers up my entire foot—I got something much smaller: a little blue heart that is a little bit bigger than a quarter in size.

Yes, it hurt, it's right on top of bone. Eventually, my entire foot went numb and things were alright...for the 15 minutes that it took to get the thing.

When I came back to school after Christmas break, people were stopping me in the middle of the hallways, in the cafeteria, even in the middle of class, asking me to take my shoe off and show them the tattoo. One boy stopped me right before the final bell rang and asked if he could see it. It soon drew a crowd, and the principal was coming our way.

"What's going on over here? Aren't you all supposed to be in class?"

Then he looked down at my foot—his face turned red and his eyes grew wide.

"It's illegal in the state of Michigan to have a tattoo as a minor," he stated. I told him my parents and I went to Ohio to get it done, and he became even more enraged and began interrogating me right there; the other kids that had been there before he arrived slowly started to back away.

"What kind of parents in their right minds would let their eighth grader get a tattoo? Who are your parents? What do they do? Were they with you when you got it done, or are you lying?" Yes, he accused me of lying about who was with me when I got it done.

I came home later that day to find out that the principal actually called my mom while she was at work to question her parenting style.

"I told him that what we choose for our child is none of his business. Tattoos are not against school dress code and yours can be easily covered anyway."

A boy in high school ridiculed my parents and I every day for it, saying, "you won't make it anywhere with that tattoo. Your parents raised you to work in the Taco Bell drive thru your whole life."

Where is that boy now? Let's just say that I have yet to work at any fast food joint, and he's worked at two.

I now have three tattoos, all with meanings that are close to home. My parents have raised me in an artistic home my whole life—from learning to express myself through my music and writing, to getting art on my body unlike anyone else in the world. It's all special to me. This is my way of showing that I have stories to tell.

You see, my tattoo choice had to be approved by my parents before I could get it anyway. They agreed that the heart was the best choice for me. They let me get a tattoo at 13 to teach me a lesson. They told me that if I regretted it, I would have to pay for the laser removal (which I've been told hurts more than getting the actual tattoo). They are not bad parents for letting me get a tattoo at 13. If this one topic justifies every way you feel about my parents and me, then so be it, but understand they raised me right. The little heart on my foot is not a judgment of my parents' characters.