Free: This Is What Becoming Looks Like

When I made the decision to stop drinking about four years ago, I commemorated it by getting the word “free” tattooed on my left arm. It was small, just for me, and it felt like a declaration. I was a little nervous Glenn would say, “Oops, another tattoo,” but this one wasn’t about anyone else. It was about me. 

It happened during the annual NIADA convention in Austin, TX. Getting a tattoo in a strange place just felt right—no one knew me, and I didn’t know anyone at the shop. I didn’t tell anyone I was getting it. My husband had sort of drawn a line after my third tattoo: “You shouldn’t get any more.” At the time, his comment kind of made sense. Piercings, tattoos—and for some people, even plastic surgery—can become compelling. Maybe even reckless, in some people’s eyes. Will we regret what we do to our bodies? Most of it can be undone, but not without a cost. 

Still, maybe it’s not about recklessness. Maybe it’s about expressing who we are. Doing something for ourselves—something we carry with us always. A way to remember someone, something, or a moment in time. 

When I got the tattoo, “free” simply meant I was free from the grip alcohol had on my daily life. I’d spent years trying to drink less—less every day, fewer days a week. Finally, I’d made it a year or more alcohol-free, and I wanted to mark that. 

But self-expression was never something I felt free to do. 

When I was 19 or 20, I was a waitress in Stamford, CT. The host there—Scott—talked to me about being “classy.” He pointed out a coworker: the way she dressed, acted, and wore simple silver hoops. From then on, for decades, simple silver hoops were the only earrings I felt comfortable wearing. 

When I was 30, I got my belly button pierced (it seemed like everyone was doing it), and I loved it. It felt a little outside the box, but still broadly acceptable. 

There were other small moments of expression. I had the cartilage in my right ear pierced three times, but each time it was too painful to let heal, and I ended up taking it out. It felt like my body didn’t want to participate in my efforts to express myself. 

Same thing with my nose—I pierced it five times before I finally figured out you had to change the inside piece to keep it from popping off when I dried my face. Less than a year ago, it finally stuck. And it makes me so happy. 

Just yesterday, I told my husband about my mom’s comment years ago: “I don’t know why anyone would want to pierce their nose.” He nodded—he doesn’t get it either. She’s 75, and he’s 67. Freedom of expression, for their generation, was more for hippies and outsiders. 

I’ve spent most of my life worrying about what others think. I’ve felt the pull to express myself through clothes or hair, only to be silenced by the inner voice that says, “What will people think?” My dad used to say women shouldn’t have short hair. For years, I had short hair—and loved it. Was I being rebellious? Maybe. But when it came to dresses, jewelry, trying new looks—it always felt uncomfortable. I’d been conditioned to be “classy.” To stay small. Not to stand out. 

That internal voice has been loud. It talks me out of buying, wearing, or doing things. The noise has been deafening. 

But I’ve been fighting back, bit by bit. Trying new earrings. Wearing skirts. Leaving my toenails unpainted for a few weeks (to the horror of my daughter). Yep—the whole clan expects me to stay the same. 

But I keep moving forward with uncovering me. Not in a pushy, “F you” kind of way—but in a way that feels good. 

During my work with Shandell Pino in Utah, she pointed to my tattoo and asked, “What does that mean?” I told her it was just about being free from alcohol. She asked if it could mean more. At the time I said, “Nope, that’s it.” But I went to Shandell for a reason. Maybe she was onto something. 

Three weeks later—after working with her and ketamine therapy—FREE is beginning to mean much more. 

Is it time to grow out my hair? Is short hair another way I’ve covered up who I am? 

“Vacation me” has tried on ankle bracelets a few times over the years, but it always felt like too much. Well—I have one on now. And it’s staying. 

I’ve got a hippie bedspread I picked up in Utah. 

I’m drawn to Middle Eastern decor—lamps, brass bowls, incense—so I went to Old World Market and Karavan (in the Short North) to bring more of that energy into my home. 

A long time ago, I had a black and white keffiyeh—also called a ghutrah or shemagh—a scarf worn mostly by men in Middle Eastern countries. I wanted another one. But I hesitated. These scarves can carry deep tribal, political, and cultural meaning, and I didn’t want to offend anyone. Still, I bought one last week. And I’m wearing it. Because it makes me happy. If someone asks, I’ll simply say it reminds me of the time I lived in Iran when I was 8 years old. It brings me comfort. 

I’m done worrying about what others will say or think. My clan has commented on my self-expression, but it’s not their fault. It’s my responsibility now—to step into the truest expression of me. 

And the biggest example of “free” to me? 

A hippie. 

Hippies are light. Happy. They do what they want. They’re cool, and they accept others. That’s who I want to be. And who I’m becoming. 

Shandell was right—there is so much more to my tattoo. 

It’s not just about alcohol anymore.
It’s about being sovereign.