The first time I got a tattoo, it was on a weekend when I was in Austin with my friends, and my family was in San Antonio. Sunday morning, my seran-wrapped wrist and I walked into our kitchen and brandished ourselves like the spontaneous entities we were, and as far as conversations go, the only thing I really blurted out was, “look ma, I got a tattoo.”

The first tattoo I got was an impulsive move, and so was the second one. They were both on my wrists. The third one I got was a bit more planned out, but as far as timing goes, I hopped off of a plane, dropped my stuff off at home and left for Montrose.

On Friday, however, I got my fourth piece, and my most intricate one yet. All my tattoos are quite different, but here is what makes them all so special to me: the unconditional love and support from my mom each and every single time.

Like I said, the first time I got tatted, I didn’t tell my mom. I did it, came home, and my amazing mother gave me nothing but well-wishes, and I count my blessings for her.

My mother has always been close to me, we’ve been the duo since ‘97, but high school was rough on my mental state. My frontal lobe not having been quite developed, and an imbalance of my neurotransmitters led to me taking some brash decisions. These decisions left scars on my wrists and arms, some that have not quite faded, and it pains me to think at that time, I thought, “it’s me against the world.”

Mama was always there, silently respecting my decisions to isolate myself, and reaching out to me when she thought I absolutely needed it. Forever caring in all aspects, and immensely so with regards to my growth as an individual, but she didn’t know I was hurting myself. I’m sure she would have reached out, but my tattoos and her positive reactions to them remind me of how lucky I am as a daughter.

Three out of the four tattoos I have are replacing the ghosts of my past with promises of the future, and the most recent one is officially ending the visibility of my decisions as a mentally disrupted teenager.

My mom has always been on-board with my choices in life whether that means jumping into a pool without floaties, or wandering the streets of Dublin at 12 a.m. with some strange, blue ice cream she’s always there to make sure I’m ok, and I’m realizing that a huge part of that is not just because she respects me but also because she trusts and loves me.

There’s a difference between just letting your kids go out and do stuff, and really taking part in their choices despite the fact that you may have your own opinions on what they want to do, and my amma is the epitome of letting your kids explore the world but being there if they need to hold your hand.

She knows that some of the decisions my brother and I take might not end up the greatest, but she lets us have the freedom to make our choices and figure out how to solve the issues we create by ourselves, and that to me, is one of the strongest things you can do as a parent.

My mama is resilient and open-minded, and 100% the greatest blessing in my life, and if a kiss on the cheek and her tender fingers rubbing my sore, swollen arm isn’t a reminder of that I don’t know what is. So this one goes out to my Amma, my human LED support banner. I love you.