I Got Tattoos Because I Didn’t Have a Colouring Book as a Child…Obviously

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I’m tattooed because I didn’t have a colouring book as a child. Yes, that’s my official answer, and I’m sticking to it. When people ask me why I’m covered in artwork from head to toe, I tell them this truth in all seriousness, and the reactions I get are almost as priceless as the ink itself. Imagine someone responding with a look that’s halfway between confusion and epiphany, as if they’ve just uncovered the deepest psychology behind body art. I watch them process this idea, half-believing it and, perhaps, also questioning their own inkless childhoods.

The truth is, tattoos filled a void that I never even knew I had until I held my first tattoo gun. Growing up, I always envied the children whose lives were filled with brightly coloured crayons, tidy little books, and that innocent creative freedom. Meanwhile, I made do with scribbling on scraps of paper or, in a pinch, on my own skin with markers. So you see, it was practically destiny that I’d one day go from drawing on my arms in ballpoint ink to wearing permanent works of art. I mean, if my parents had invested in one of those huge boxes of coloured pencils with the built-in sharpener, this entire thing might have been avoided.

Now, getting a tattoo as an adult isn’t exactly like colouring in a picture of a cartoon princess. For one thing, it’s a tad more painful. And there’s no erasing any “oops” moments, no second chances if you colour outside the lines. And yet, there’s something thrilling about knowing that each tattoo is a permanent addition to my life story, as personal as my skin. With each piece, I add a new chapter—something I’d probably never have discovered if I’d been happily filling in colouring books as a child. Ironically, every time I hear the hum of the tattoo machine, it’s like hearing a lullaby. The sound of artistic freedom, one needle stroke at a time.

Some people buy tattoos like they buy furniture: carefully curated pieces that match the rest of their body’s “aesthetic.” I, on the other hand, am a bit more of a “whatever fits” type. My body is less of a showhome and more of a curated gallery of random, beloved art—think more eclectic, less “gallery wall.” There are flowers, animals, words, geometric shapes, all thrown together like a spontaneous burst of creativity, each tattoo more colourful than the last. And I love it. I’ve essentially turned my body into a walking exhibit of a child who never got their chance to colour inside the lines, and it’s absolutely glorious.

For me, the joy of tattoos is not just the end result but the process, too. There’s a thrill in sitting down, knowing that soon I’ll be walking out with a new piece of art etched into my skin. There’s a boldness to it, a moment when I can say, “I am here, and this is who I am.” Maybe, if my childhood had been filled with cheerful colouring books, I wouldn’t have felt the need to express myself this way. But the fact that I missed out on something as simple as crayons and blank spaces to fill has led me here, and in a strange way, I wouldn’t change a thing.

For every tattoo artist who’s had to endure my grand “I didn’t have a colouring book” speech, I salute you. You’ve patiently turned my wild ideas into masterpieces, taken my stories, my joys, and my whims, and made them into a colourful collection of art that now lives on my skin. You’ve even indulged my request for “a little more shading here” or “just one more colour” as if I were an overexcited kid again, grasping a crayon and determined to get every last bit of the rainbow onto the page.

And yes, for anyone wondering if tattoos come with their own brand of therapy—absolutely, they do. There’s something cathartic about choosing a piece of art and committing to it. It’s the adult equivalent of choosing the right crayon, only the crayon is now a needle, and the canvas is forever. It’s the satisfaction of finally getting to “colour in” something I’d been waiting my whole life to fill. And each time I walk away with a new tattoo, it feels as if I’ve reconnected with a lost part of my childhood. I’ve finally got my colouring book; it just happens to be permanently inked on me.

To anyone who says, “But tattoos are so permanent,” I offer this rebuttal: so is missing out on colouring books, my friend. Some absences stay with you forever, and we all find ways to make peace with them. For me, that peace comes in the form of colourful, personal, and proudly displayed tattoos. Each piece is a symbol, a badge of the creativity I didn’t get to express in childhood but that I’m finally letting loose now.

So here’s to the tattooed among us—whether you grew up with colouring books or without, whether you picked up your first crayon early or not at all. Here’s to the bold art on your skin, the stories you carry, and the beautiful, sometimes hilarious reasons you chose to get inked. Life may not give us a colouring book, but we can always find a way to make our own canvas, one that doesn’t need to stay inside the lines.

And if you see me out there, proudly displaying my “colouring book,” just know that I’m making up for lost time.