This Isn't Forever
On tattoos and talking ourselves into being tough
My friend’s dog was hit by a car the other day. He broke free from his leash and dashed into the road, where a car hit him and then drove away without stopping. He’s going to survive, but my friend is bracing for a pretty hellish six- to- eight weeks of rehab, not to mention a staggering bill.
“…[T]bh,” she wrote in a public Instagram post, “I don’t know how to do this. I wish I did, but I just don’t.”
When she said something similar to me via text, I replied, “This isn’t forever”, along with some things that (I hope) were actually helpful, as I know “This isn’t forever” is effing annoying when you’re the one who has to carry a big fluffy dog up and down stairs for an entire global warming summer while also managing smallish kids.
I said “This isn’t forever” to her because that’s what I say to myself. Things will be simple again.
I say it to myself because my heart and my amygdala both believe, whenever anything goes wrong, that it is forever. That I will feel this forever. This panic is forever. This heartbreak is forever.
But this chaotic schedule with a book project and a job and three kids in vastly different stages of life isn’t forever. The feeling of not being comfortable in this skin isn’t always, and it’s not forever.
And so I say it out loud in my panicked moments: I know this isn’t forever. This will be over soon enough. Generally, I’m quick to find something nearby to delight in or, at the very least, a way to survive. I also say this to my kids when they’re sick or struggling. This isn’t forever. This will pass. I’ve got you.
Last week, Rebekkah and I flew to Las Vegas on a Friday morning for a mere 30 hours. We called it Viva Las Velmas and Velma and Louise.
We’ve called ourselves The Velmas since my boys and her two kids were little and we were the working moms who showed up to school events slightly confused, perpetually in-between one million tasks. Instead of feeling ashamed of that, we embraced it.
Some moms show up to the 100th Day Of School party or the Halloween Picnic with homemade, holiday-themed snacks. They always look cute, with makeup and clean hair. These are the Daphnes of moms.
As Velmas, we are often caught discussing things nobody else cares about, like the time a friend caught us playing Skee-Ball in the middle of Chuck E Cheese and discussing the merits of using bacteriostatic metals in bathroom fixtures. Our friend looked at us, shook her head, and just laughed.
When people heard that the Velmas were going to Vegas for a mere 30 hours, they said things like, “Oh that’s going to be wild!” Not anyone who knows us well, of course.
The only thing that actually got wild was our hair as we speed-walked up down the Strip for more than 30 minutes in the blazing June sun, almost missing the appointment I booked months before. We didn’t realize that Uber isn’t allowed to pick people up on the Strip or at hotel entrances, and so we walked, trying to find a legal spot to grab our ride. We walked and walked and walked, discovering that the Vegas Strip is now essentially gated off except at a few crosswalks and on a few overpasses. You can’t cross the road, even at most stoplights!
Being lost in one of the most popular tourist cities in the world was an odd feeling. It was the middle of the day, we could see where we needed to be to get a car (or so we thought), and yet we couldn’t get there. There should be taxis at the front of any big hotel, right? And there should be front entrances of every big hotel along the strip, right? There should be spots along the streets where one could meet an Uber, like we have in New York or Chicago or Seattle or Los Angeles. But there aren’t.
I felt a tightness in my chest, the metallic heat in the intake of breath that you feel when panic is about to set in.
“This isn’t forever,” I said to myself, and maybe to Becky, too. “We’ll figure it out.”
On our third try, we were matched with the world’s best Uber driver who, along with a kind janitorial employee, helped us figure out how to cut through the nastiest part of Harrah’s (which is very, very nasty, by the way) to the back alley where rideshare cars are actually allowed. We stood with two business-looking women and numerous men who all looked like Lenny or Squiggy, and hoped our driver would finally find us.
Tattoo artist Alex Strangler has a set of strict policies for her studio, part of why I wanted her to do mine. Her vibe is one of a woman business owner who knows her boundaries and keeps them strong. This is what I want more of in life.
Her shop is immaculately clean, aesthetically perfect down to the tiniest detail, and her appointment rules are clear. If you are more than 20 minutes late, she considers you a no-show and your deposit is forfeited.
By the time we got in the Uber, Maps said we’d arrive 28 minutes past my appointment time. Eight past Alex’s cut-off rule. I emailed her and DM’d on Instagram — her number isn’t listed anywhere, hoping she’d see one of my messages. It was all I could do.
At one point I looked over at Becky and recognized something in her that I usually only see in myself: The specific type of stress you feel when you anticipate the upset of someone else. But I wasn’t upset. Once we were in that car and my messages were sent, I was OK.
On our 20-minute ride, the driver gave us what should count as an advanced-level college course in the politics of Vegas hotels and taxis vs rideshares and a few specific rules she follows for staying safe as a rideshare driver in Las Vegas (“no pickups after 8PM” and “don’t pick up men from strip clubs, ever”).
I figured that even if I missed my appointment — which I’d booked months in advance — there wasn’t anything I could do about it. I might as well enjoy the moment: Three women talking the way women do when men aren’t around, somehow almost instantly intimate and trusting, confident that nobody is about to interrupt us or correct us about our own lived experiences.
When I got a reply email from Alex saying it would be OK, the three of us — Becky, me and the gal driving the Uber — collectively exhaled again. When we got there, I settled into the chair and eventually almost fell asleep.
The tattoo turned out incredible, I cannot believe how much I love it. Every element of it is symbolic for me, devoted to a feeling of peace and tiny tributes to people I’ve lost.
I asked for a stamp or postcard with a vibrant but peaceful image of boats on a lake or ocean, birds in the sky. I wanted some bright colors — especially yellow — for Misti, my friend who passed away suddenly a year ago, and Alex added her signature flowers to the corners. I feel like Mist would’ve loved it
Every time I look at it, I smile. A little stamp that reminds me that this isn’t forever — whatever it is that feels hard. In fact, there’s a lot of joy to come.
Also read: Happiness, The Hidden Motherhood Burden
Joanna Schroeder is a writer and media critic whose work has appeared in The New York Times, The Boston Globe, Esquire, and more. For links and clips, visit her LinkTree. Her parenting book, TALK TO YOUR BOYS, co-written with Christopher Pepper, publishes in 2025 via Workman Publishing.
Thank you so much, Joanna, for this new fabulous article that says it all about the beauty and benefit of mindfulness in a real life situation. While so many get sucked into the maelstrom; you did not, and you do not!
I use the mantra "the only way out is through" a lot when I'm in those kinds of high stress moments. Somethings can't be stopped or fixed right away or ignored but they won't last forever, so it a good reminder of the value of doing the next right thing and keeping moving.
(Also that tattoo is lovely!)