Our Mothers' Dragons

It’s been two years of Big Talk, but I finally did it:

I sat in a chair watching ‘80s horror movies as I got my first tattoo. I was brave, the artist was rad, and I instantly look cooler in a T-shirt.

But the best part is: she has a twin.

Like any good Cancer crab, I got matching tattoos with my mom.

I could say it’s for my 40th birthday, and it’s not not, but it’s really the fulfillment of a promise that my mother and I made to each other two years ago, immediately followed by two years of chicken-footing around it.

At the time, I wrote an essay called Our Mothers’ Dragons. As I stared at the healing phoenix on my arm, I thought it might be cute to read again, finally having arrived at the anticipated zenith of the piece, coming full circle, the writing and the achieved feeling finally one. And I can put it up on Substack! How fun!

We don’t always get such clear glimpses at chasms of growth, but I was gobsmacked to find that self so… other. The words were dated and stale, many evolutions past of my hurt, my hopes, my growing pains. I felt like hauling the baby out with the bathwater in frustration, no longer able to see myself in the wasted pages.

Past the onerous tangle of rewrites was a simpler, more obvious truth: You’ve come a long way, baby.