I Never Thought I’d Question My First Tattoo

I got it to remind myself to live fully. Eight years later, living fully means something else.

If you’re thinking about getting a tattoo but hesitate because you might change your mind about it, welcome.

I changed mine.

In 2016 I went on my first proper trip abroad to Bosnia and Herzegovina. That was the first eye-opening experience of my life. I spent ten days with a group of 20 people from all over the world! We learned to code, played games, stayed up late and made fun of each other.

I wanted more, so I booked my first ever solo trip to Milan and couchsurfed in Monza. From there, the rest is history. Suddenly a whole new world opened, and I started driving my parents crazy with my travel plans.

I was in love with all the possibilities life has to offer, and I wanted to soak all of it in. At the same time, I fell into the corner of self-development obsessed with constant optimisation and not waiting for the perfect moment.

Two years after that trip to Bosnia, in 2018, I got my first tattoo. I wanted something that would constantly remind me of the inevitability of death. My desire was to live fully, have a wide range of experiences and meet as many people as possible.

Boy, did that belief take me on a crazy journey. I traveled the world while working remotely, had a midlife crisis while doing an outdoor education course in New Zealand, explored my inner world from different angles, fell in love multiple times, broke some hearts, began to understand my upbringing, and met incredible people, amongst many other things.

But all of this came with a price. I rarely stayed anywhere long enough for the novelty to wear off and something deeper to begin. There was always an onward flight, because time was limited after all. Death is looming around the corner, and I have to experience as much as possible.

I was having the most incredible life on the outside, but I was feeling lonely. I thought a romantic relationship would give me the sense of home I was missing. Surprise — it did not.

The wake-up call was finishing up a 12-day trek in Kyrgyzstan. At our last dinner, everyone was talking about their excitement about returning to their life. A girl was starting university, another one got a new job, and a man was excited to see his wife.

And me? I was going to move in with a group of strangers in a co-living space in the Swiss Alps. That felt like the furthest thing from what I was craving: a home I would be excited to return to.

I did not know it then, but the co-living became my first proper home in my adult life. I remember sitting in the living room one winter evening, and realising there was no other place I wanted to be.

I got to experience seasons. Know the people at the supermarket by name. Work on my own projects. Build weekly rituals with friends. Learn to cook and have people over for dinner.

But most importantly, I got to sit with myself. I had never learned how to sit with the seemingly mundane or work through difficult emotions. I was constantly chasing the next new thing, distracting myself from my inner world. Now, I finally had the mental headspace to experience the full range of my emotions.

Be bored — this is such an overlooked skill in today's world. I did not feel the pressure to fill every minute of my day with activities. What do you mean I could just sit on the sofa, light a candle and read my book?

Get excited about the smallest things, like my morning coffee. The constant desire for peak experiences numbed my senses. It is difficult to enjoy the morning sun hitting my favorite part of the sofa, if in my mind I want to be in the Maldives scuba diving with manta rays.

I started to feel the “time is limited” message no longer fit me. It started to go against my values of depth over breadth. So I made a little update to it.

Time is still limited, of course. Crossing out those words did not make me immortal. I simply no longer wanted urgency to be the force directing my life.

The new message feels aligned with the version of me I am becoming without erasing the road that brought me here. I have come to trust time in two ways.

Timing. Moving to Lisbon. Committing to a person. Quitting my job. I felt it in my bones that it was time to take those steps, even without knowing where they would lead.

Time. A decision can feel clear while its consequences remain completely uncertain. Looking back over the past 32 years, much of my life only makes sense from a distance.

For the first time in my life, I am not rushing towards an answer. I can hold multiple versions of the future without needing to decide today which one will become real. Time will give me more information, and I trust that eventually it will make sense.

Will Lisbon still be my home in a year? Will a connection I care about ever become a relationship? I can leave those questions open without letting them consume me.

It is a fine line: leaving room for uncertainty while continuing to participate fully in the life that is already here. I don’t know which version of the future will become real. For once, I don’t need to force an answer.

It is just a matter of time.

What is something you once believed deeply that no longer fits the life you’re living today? I want to hear from you.

See you next week,
Robert.