What Do You Do With It?

I woke up convinced it was Friday. My head was already filled with obligations, deadlines, and all the reasons not to sit down with my tattoo machine. When I realized it was actually Saturday, it felt like someone had quietly handed me a gift. No expectations. No rush. Just time.

I started the day the way I’ve trained myself to: a cup of coffee, my devotional, and a sketch. I wasn’t sure what to draw, but a friend had shared a photo of their dog — a trained service dog. The expression on his face was the embodiment of devotion. I wanted to see if I could capture that.

Anyone who has tried drawing animals knows fur is unforgiving. It’s easy to overwork it into mush or simplify it until it loses life. I focused on shadows first — how light breaks into strands of highlights — which wasn’t helped by the fact that the dog is blonde. Creating contrast took patience, and more restraint than I expected.

I had every intention all week of working on my tattoo skills. I’d printed a stencil from one of my Artist Hour sketches and transferred it to practice skin days earlier. But something always got in the way. Eventually, I realized it wasn’t circumstances — it was me. The skin sat in my studio, waiting for intention instead of excuses.

After finishing the sketch, I felt warmed up and headed into the studio. I charged the machine, set up my station, and went to work. The lining, the shading, the design coming together — it felt right. Grounded. Familiar.

When I finished, I shared the sketch with my friend. The response wasn’t kind. For a moment, I didn’t know whether to defend the work or myself. Then I realized neither was necessary. Some people carry pain quietly, and sometimes it spills out sideways. I didn’t need to carry it with him — or add to it.

I kept working on the piece afterward — not to prove anything, and not for anyone else. I worked on it because the challenge mattered to me. Learning how light moves through fur, how edges soften around a muzzle, how patience shows up in small decisions — that’s the work. And that day, the work was enough.

Progress doesn’t always look like praise. Sometimes it looks like showing up anyway. So I will keep showing up. Refining the collar. Softening the muzzle transitions. Writing alongside the work.

Not because I want approval — but because I want to be ready when someone trusts me with their story, and not waste the gift of time when it’s given.