When my daughter turned 16, she announced she wanted a tattoo.
Caught off guard, I immediately said, "No!" She countered with, "Well, I have a friend who tattoos in his basement. I could just go there, and you’d never know."
I didn’t fundamentally have a problem with tattoos, but she was only 16—I felt she was too young to make such a permanent decision. Teenagers often believe they know themselves completely and telling them otherwise doesn’t always go well. Tattoos are both permanent and painful, and I wasn’t sure she was ready to make a choice she wouldn’t regret later.
She was determined, however, and the thought of her going to a high school classmate’s basement for permanent ink was alarming. We went back and forth, both holding our ground. We were at a standstill. The situation reminded me of retraining one of my young thoroughbred horses.
While working with Ace, my 5-year-old rescue OTTB (off-the-track thoroughbred), in the round pen, he would occasionally get stuck—literally. He would plant his feet and refuse to move. One of the early lessons in our training was getting him to take a few steps backward, an action my coaches taught me would establish me as his leader.
By studying herd dynamics, my natural horsemanship mentors taught me that the lead horse is the one who causes the others to move. If Ace refused to move and I stepped back first, I would inadvertently confirm that he was the leader. However, if neither of us moved, we were simply stuck, communication cut off entirely.
After standing and staring at each other for a while, I realized I could move sideways rather than backward to get him to shift. The sideways movement wasn’t perceived as a retreat but as a way to change the course of our interaction without engaging in a battle of wills. This lesson—redirect rather than retreat—became invaluable not only in training but in parenting.
Faced with my daughter’s tattoo request, I realized I had to figure out how to get us unstuck. If I simply said yes, would she see it as a retreat? Would I set a precedent that she (and her siblings) could always wear me down? Maybe. But if I stayed firm in my "no," I risked pushing her into a risky decision. Ultimately, she was leaving the door open for discussion—it was up to me whether I left it open or slammed it shut.
I saw two choices:
Choice #1: Stick to my "no" and shut down any conversation about tattoos. The possible outcomes? She might obey but harbor resentment, or she might go ahead and get the tattoo behind my back. Then what? Punish her? Take away her phone? Ground her? Would this lead to more secrecy, sneaking out, and a relationship built on dishonesty and resentment? I knew that wasn’t the kind of relationship I wanted with my daughter. I loved my mother, but we weren’t close when I was growing up. She wasn’t someone I confided in or sought advice from. This path didn’t feel right.
Choice #2: Reconsider, redirect, and negotiate. Could we discuss my concerns—hygiene, permanence, changing tastes—and find a compromise? At 16, teenagers crave autonomy. Silencing their voices doesn’t foster a strong future relationship.
I realized, just like with Ace, that I needed to make the first move. I am the parent. I am the adult. I needed to guide this moment constructively.
So, we negotiated. I agreed she could get a tattoo, but she would pick the design and placement with my approval (no skull and crossbones). In return, I would select the tattoo parlor and cover the cost. Tattoos aren’t cheap, so this seemed like a fair compromise. Plus, I got to be there with her. In many ways, tattooing today feels like the new ear piercing, and I was thankful to be included in the experience.
Did this mean we never had another conflict? Of course not. But it was a pivotal moment of growth. And the only precedent it set was that I would strive to redirect, negotiate, and keep communication open with all my children as they grew.
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