Realizing Both Tattoos and Cooking Ask Me to Commit Without Certainty

The realization didn’t come during a tattoo appointment or in the middle of a particularly ambitious recipe, which is probably why it felt honest instead of dramatic, arriving quietly while I was doing something familiar and unremarkable. 

I was standing in my kitchen, ingredients laid out without a strict plan, cooking the way I usually do when I trust myself, and I caught sight of my tattoo as I reached for a spoon, noticing how little it demanded explanation now that it had settled into my body. 

That’s when it hit me that the feeling I had when I first booked the tattoo appointment and the feeling I have when I start cooking without a guarantee of how things will turn out are almost identical, a mix of calm intention and unresolved outcome that asks for commitment before certainty shows up.

I realized then how often I move forward in my life without guarantees, even though I like to pretend I don’t, and how some of the most meaningful things I’ve chosen were never backed by proof that they would work out exactly the way I hoped.

The Illusion That Certainty Comes First

We’re taught to believe that certainty should precede action, that confidence is something you acquire before you begin, and that commitment without assurance is reckless rather than brave. 

I absorbed that belief quietly over time, internalizing the idea that responsible choices are the ones you can explain clearly, justify logically, and predict accurately. 

But when I look honestly at my life, that narrative falls apart quickly, because the choices that shaped me most were the ones I made without knowing how they would land.

Tattoos don’t come with guarantees. You can sit with an idea for months, choose an artist carefully, imagine it on your body a hundred different ways, and still never know exactly how it will feel once it’s part of you. 

Cooking is the same way, especially when you stop following recipes rigidly and start trusting your instincts. You can understand technique, timing, and flavor balance, but the outcome always retains an element of uncertainty that no amount of preparation fully removes.

Booking a Tattoo Without Knowing How I’d Feel Later

When I booked my tattoo, I didn’t feel fearless or absolutely sure in the way people often expect. I felt grounded, thoughtful, and calm, but not omniscient. 

I knew why I wanted it, and I knew it resonated with me in the present, but I didn’t have a guarantee that it would feel perfect forever or that it would always represent me in exactly the same way.

I accepted that risk quietly, not because I didn’t care, but because I understood that permanence doesn’t require certainty, only alignment.

What mattered wasn’t knowing how I’d feel in ten years. What mattered was trusting the version of myself who was making the decision, trusting that she was thoughtful enough, honest enough, and grounded enough to choose something meaningful without needing to predict every future version of herself.

Cooking Without a Safety Net

I cook the same way I choose tattoos, even though I didn’t realize it until that moment in the kitchen. I start with intention, with an understanding of what I want the dish to feel like, but I don’t demand certainty before I begin. 

I taste as I go. I adjust. I allow things to unfold without panicking when they don’t follow a perfect script.

There are nights when I don’t know exactly how dinner will turn out, when I combine ingredients based on instinct rather than instruction, and that uncertainty doesn’t stop me from starting. It actually draws me in, because it requires presence, attention, and trust instead of control.

Cooking taught me that not knowing doesn’t mean unprepared. It means open.

The Shared Language of Commitment

Both tattoos and cooking require you to commit before you receive feedback, to begin without assurance that the outcome will match the vision in your head. Once you start, you’re in it. Ink settles into skin. Ingredients transform with heat. There’s no rewind button, no easy undo, only adjustment and acceptance.

That shared language of commitment is what makes both practices feel grounding rather than stressful for me. They ask me to be present instead of predictive, to respond instead of control, and to trust myself enough to move forward without needing confirmation at every step.

I realized that I don’t need certainty to act. I need alignment.

Why This Used to Scare Me More Than It Does Now

There was a time when uncertainty felt threatening, when not knowing the outcome made me hesitate or avoid committing altogether. I wanted guarantees because I wanted safety, not realizing that safety doesn’t come from knowing everything in advance, but from trusting yourself to handle whatever happens next.

The more I cooked intuitively, the more comfortable I became with imperfection, adjustment, and surprise. The more I committed to choices like tattoos, the more I learned that growth doesn’t require perfect foresight, just honesty in the moment of decision.

That shift didn’t make me reckless. It made me resilient.

Letting Go of the Need to Be Right

Another parallel between tattoos and cooking is how little either cares about being “right.” There’s no single correct outcome, no universal standard that defines success beyond personal satisfaction and lived experience. 

A tattoo doesn’t fail because it evolves in meaning. A dish doesn’t fail because it tastes slightly different than expected.

Letting go of the need to be right freed me to commit more fully, to begin without the pressure of proving anything, and to trust that character develops through participation, not perfection.

How This Realization Changed Other Areas of My Life

Once I noticed the pattern, I started seeing it everywhere, in how I choose clothes, how I plan my days, how I enter relationships, and how I make creative decisions. I realized how often I delay beginnings because I’m waiting for certainty that never actually arrives, and how much life happens when you stop waiting.

Tattoos and cooking taught me that beginnings don’t ask for guarantees. They ask for presence, honesty, and willingness to stay engaged as things unfold.

Main Character Moment of the Day

Main Character Moment of the Day: realizing both tattoos and cooking ask me to commit without certainty.

Not because I suddenly became fearless or detached from outcomes, but because I recognized a pattern in how I already live my life. The lesson arrived clearly and stayed. You don’t need guarantees to begin.

Some of the most meaningful things you’ll ever choose won’t come with proof or certainty or a promise that they’ll feel perfect forever. They’ll ask you to trust yourself, to commit honestly, and to stay present as things unfold. And sometimes, being the main character isn’t about knowing exactly how the story ends, but about beginning anyway, trusting that you’ll grow into whatever comes next.