I got my first (and what will likely be my only) tattoo last March 2016, six months after I discharged myself from the hospital and began treatment again for my eating disorder—a battle I’ve been fighting since I was 11 years old. The tattoo runs sideways up from my left ankle in five inches of formidable black ink—all capital letters that read VENZA. It is the present subjunctive yo form of the Spanish verb, vencer, meaning “to beat” or “to overcome.”

I was inspired by the strong sound of the word when pronounced in Spanish. I found myself turning over the same phrase in my mind—para que venza—“so that I overcome.” It is a constant reminder of what I have surmounted in my life, even when I continue to grapple with my own sense of self-worth. This is why I continue to love my tattoo nearly a year-and-a-half later:

Its design reflects my interests.

The tattoo runs along my left leg, which I have used to run for years—to carry me long distances during countless cross country running seasons and three half marathons. I hope the message will one day push me to run 26.2 miles to the finish line of a full marathon.

As for the text, when inverted, the V in VENZA looks like the Deathly Hallows symbol from Harry Potter, a series that defined my childhood and brought me solace in some of my darkest times with anorexia.The font is not an accident either. It resembles roman numerals, the script used by an empire that lasted hundreds of years and conquered vast territories across the globe, evoking the longevity of my struggle.Lastly, the message is in Spanish, a language I have studied as one of my university majors and that I’ve spoken for the past seven years. It adds one more layer of complexity, while prompting the curious observer to ask, “What does your tattoo mean?”

It inspires difficult conversations about mental illness and forces me to be honest about my own experience.

My tattoo covertly tells a bit of my story, but remains a secret unless someone is courageous enough to inquire. For me, this is a representation of society’s continued difficulty discussing mental illness. But, after nearly 10 years of recovery, I don’t mind sharing.

Rather, I hope that my story will inspire the strength and will to overcome the variety of illnesses that wreak havoc within so many innocent victims’ minds. I have been hospitalized twice, never been able to keep a consistent weight, suffer from body dysmorphia, and was diagnosed with osteoporosis two years ago at the age of 18. Although I am now physically healthier, I still find the “eating disorder thoughts” difficult to suppress.

I got inked when I most needed the strength and reassurance.

I was 5 feet 5 inches and 85 pounds at the beginning of my sophomore year of college in September 2015. When I got my tattoo six months later, I had restored nearly 30 pounds. My emotions were more stable and I could focus on my school and work responsibilities. But my mind still told me it was all wrong—that I should never have gotten help, that I should have stayed skinny and beautifully bony.

Getting a permanent message carved into my skin reminded me that this was right—that the pain and struggle would be worth it and bring me a better life and happier times. I can say now that it certainly has.