At 75 years old, I’ve seen the world change in more ways than I ever thought possible. But nothing prepared me for the shock I felt the moment my granddaughter walked into the room last weekend. My sweet, vibrant Sarah, with her sparkling eyes and boundless energy, now had a tattoo on her face.
A *face tattoo.*
I stared, trying not to let my expression betray the knot forming in my stomach. The tattoo wasn’t enormous or garish—just a delicate symbol near her temple. But its presence felt so loud, so permanent.
I didn’t say anything at first. Instead, I smiled, kissed her cheek, and told her how happy I was to see her. She was still the same girl I adored, yet I couldn’t stop the questions racing through my mind.
“Why the face?” I thought.
Tattoos, I can understand, even if they aren’t my thing. Arms, shoulders, ankles—I’ve seen them all on young people. But the face?
That feels like an entirely different decision. It’s a statement the whole world will see, every single day.
All evening, I watched her chat with the family, her laughter lighting up the room. But my heart felt heavy.
I kept thinking about her future. Will people judge her unfairly? Will this affect her career or the way others see her?
Will she wake up one day and regret a choice she made at 22?
When she finally caught me staring, Sarah gave me a knowing smile. “It’s okay, Grandma,” she said gently. “You can ask me about it.” Her openness surprised me, but it also gave me permission to voice the concern that had been building in my heart.
“It’s not that I don’t love you,” I began cautiously, “but… why your face? You’re such a beautiful young woman. I just worry about how people might treat you.”
Her expression softened, and she took my hand.
“I understand, Grandma. I thought a lot about this before doing it. This tattoo means something very personal to me—it’s about strength and resilience.
…The story doesn’t end here, it continues on the next page 👇
