The Story I Got Wrong

The city looked different when I finally learned to arrive there by myself.

When people notice the lipstick tattoo on my ankle, they usually assume it’s about makeup.

It’s not.

At least, not because of this trip.

For a while, I was convinced this was the story behind that tattoo. Memory is funny like that. Sometimes it fills in blanks so convincingly that you don’t realize the pieces don’t actually belong together.

The ferry ride happened.

The knot in my stomach happened.

The trip into San Francisco happened.

Years ago, I boarded a ferry from Marin to San Francisco with a destination in mind and a knot in my stomach. I wasn’t meeting anyone, and no one was waiting for me when I arrived.

Just me.

That might not sound like a big deal. People travel alone every day. But courage isn’t measured by what scares other people. It’s measured by what scares you.

As the ferry pulled away from shore, I watched the city come into view. We passed San Quentin first, then Alcatraz, which felt a little too on-the-nose for the caution twisting in my stomach. Somewhere between those two shores, I started becoming someone new.

The plan was simple: walk into Haight-Ashbury and do something that felt bold and entirely my own.

At the time, it felt enormous.

I remember the excitement. The nerves. The feeling that I was crossing more than just a bay. I was crossing into a version of myself that trusted her own decisions a little more than she had the day before.

For a long while, I told myself that was the day I got the lipstick tattoo.

It wasn’t.

I thought I was bringing home a tattoo.

The truth is, I brought home a different kind of souvenir from the Haight.

One that has long since disappeared.

The confidence didn’t.

And maybe that’s why my memory blended the stories together.

Because the permanent thing wasn’t the souvenir.

The permanent thing was what happened inside me.

I learned that I could trust myself.

I had courage to navigate unfamiliar places.

I could walk into a situation that intimidated me and come out stronger on the other side.

I could do something simply because I wanted to.

No permission.

No committee vote.

No one holding my hand.

Just me.

The lipstick tattoo belongs to a different chapter of my life.

But every time I look at it, I still think about that ferry ride.

I think about the city getting closer.

I think about standing on the deck, watching the water rush by.

I think about a younger version of myself carrying equal parts excitement and fear and choosing to go anyway.

The souvenir may be gone.

The lesson isn’t.

And when I look back now, I realize that was never really the story.

The story was becoming brave enough to go alone.