A Duck Among the Scars
Today, I got my first tattoo: a yellow rubber duck on my upper arm. It’s not something I did casually. I’m 45 years old, born somewhere on the border between Generation X and the Millennials. An “Elder Millennial,” if you will. I grew up in Salt Lake City, next to the Mormons—a weird mix of religious morality and tattoo parlors on every other corner. I knew people with tattoos. I’ve seen them all my life, and some I really liked. But between the cultural baggage of living in Utah, and my grandmother saying things like, “Don’t mark up your body,” I figured it just wasn’t for me.
Then, seven years ago, I sat with my partner while she got a meaningful tattoo on her forearm. I was just there for support, but it was a surprisingly powerful experience—watching her sit calmly while something permanent was etched into her skin. I finally understood why people do it, and I wanted one. But I wasn’t ready yet. There were things I had to work through first.
My grandmother is part of The Greatest Generation. Born in 1925, she lived through The Great Depression and World War II. She just turned 100 years old, and I really respect her. You hear about people turning 100 all the time, but she’s the only person I know personally who’s made it. And like I said, she might not approve. I was going to wait until she passed away to get the tattoo, but that started to feel morbid—and for being 100 years old, Grandma is still doing really well. So I gave myself permission: after her 100th birthday, I could finally do it. In February, I made the appointment for April, just after her birthday in March.
That gave me two months to deal with another issue: a lifelong habit of compulsive skin picking, also known as dermatillomania. When I’m anxious or distracted, I tend to pick at rough patches and blemishes on my skin—especially on my upper arms. Over time it’s left scars—some visible, some faded—and I generally keep them hidden under my sleeves. The idea of getting a tattoo felt almost contradictory: how could I honor my body with art when I couldn’t stop harming it with my hands?
So, for the two months leading up to my tattoo appointment, I made a conscious effort to stop picking in that area. I wanted to prove to myself that I could keep my skin healthy and not ruin the tattoo. I’d failed in the past, but now there were real stakes: losing my deposit and the tattoo. It wasn’t easy—I had to be vigilant and constantly remind myself not to pick. But I did it, and the skin on my upper arm is smoother than it’s ever been.
And today was the day. I now have an image of a cute yellow rubber duck permanently inked onto my scarred upper arm. Why a rubber duck? It relates to an idea called “rubber duck debugging,” from a book I read just as I was starting my software engineering career—The Pragmatic Programmer. It popularized the idea that when you’re working on a difficult problem, explaining it out loud to someone—even a rubber duck—can help you think more clearly and lead to those “aha!” moments. The book suggested keeping a rubber duck on your desk so you’d always have someone to talk to, even when no one else was around.
I’ve often been that “rubber duck” for others, both personally and professionally. Being a good listener is something I’ve cultivated in myself since childhood. The rubber duck became a symbol. Listening is active. It’s a gesture of attention and care. Holding space can be hard. It takes effort to hear, process, and comprehend what another being is saying. The data channel of communication is incredibly narrow compared to the rich internal world everyone carries that no one else ever fully sees. My soul, like everyone’s, yearns to be shared and truly heard. Which means someone has to listen.
I want to be that listener—that witness—for as many people as I can. The rubber duck tattoo is my sign, my advertisement, and my reminder: I’m a listener. I’m safe to talk to. These scars? You’re not alone—I’ve got mine too. I want that to be an indelible part of myself, just like it’s now an indelible part of my body.
Ironically, my tattoo artist made the comment, “Tattoos are the most impermanent of all art forms.” They change as the person changes, stretching, aging, scarring, and healing. And eventually, bodies age, die, decompose, and become something new. The tattoo disappears with the person, but for that person, while they’re alive, that tattoo is a part of them forever, as far as they’re concerned.
Maybe that’s part of how the different generations see tattoos. My grandmother, part of the Greatest Generation, sees the body as something to preserve—clean, unmarked, held in reverence. I see my body as something that I live in, and each scar and mark tells a story from my life. My stepdaughter, firmly Generation Z, got her first tattoo when she turned 18, and at 19 she has four. I admire that clarity, the comfort in claiming space on your own skin.
It took me 45 years to feel ready. To work through the stories I’d been carrying—about shame, worth, and how I treat my body. But now I’ve done it, it’s exactly what I wanted, and it’s filled with meaning.
When I look at that cute yellow duck on my arm—living there among the scars—I see something that was always true, even before the ink:
I’m here. I’m still listening.
I’m growing and changing all the time, and that’s ok.
Because that’s life.