A Late Bloomer

Marked by Survival

I waited until I turned fifty before I got my first tattoo: a branch of sagebrush in bloom. It’s funny how an often-overlooked plant ended up a symbol of what I’ve learned about survival, resilience, and finding beauty in unlikely places.

Sagebrush in the foreground and the Columbia River in the background of the shrub-steppe landscape of Eastern Washington. Photo credit: Michele Peters

As a child growing up during the purity culture of the 1980s, I turned to the church—not because my family was religious, but because home wasn’t safe or nurturing. I needed boundaries, validation, and a sense of my own goodness. Church provided a safe place. By the time I got my first apartment at seventeen, I had lived in twelve different homes, each with its own share of complications. I was always moving, hoping the next place would feel different. Hoping to finally put down my roots.

Throughout my school years, I clung to the church’s rules, thinking that if I followed them perfectly, I’d find the love and acceptance I craved. Even outside of the church, tattoos were often seen as rebellious. People would say, “Tattoos are for bikers,” or “You’ll regret it when you’re older,” or “It’ll look gross when your skin sags,” or “Nobody will hire you,” or “You’ll get AIDS from the needles.”

Inside the church, tattoos were seen as sinful, warning that a permanent mark on your body would keep you out of heaven. For a long time, I bought into it, believing my body wasn’t mine to claim or love. Over time, as I navigated life’s challenges, I started to question those rules and the fear of judgment that came with them. Slowly, I let go and accepted my body as something worthy of honor—tattoos and all.

I’ve walked through fires—grief, loss, and upheaval—but like the sagebrush, I’m still standing. I’ve survived and grown from those challenges. I look for light in dark places.

I spent years measuring my worth by how well I followed the rules, but none of it ever made me feel whole. Inside, I still felt like that lost child, searching for validation. I couldn’t find it in my upbringing, my community, my marriage, or even myself. I felt invisible, like sagebrush growing unnoticed among brighter wildflowers. But eventually, I began to see things differently. Sagebrush may not be flashy, but it’s resilient. It thrives in the dry shrub-steppe landscape and even serves as a nurse plant to pull water from the ground and help nourish smaller plants around it.

For so long, I didn’t see my own power. But surviving, even when no one sees, is its own kind of strength. Like sagebrush, I had weathered so much—trauma, heartache, and change. I learned to pull from deep reserves I didn’t know I had. And just like sagebrush regenerates after fires, I found ways to rebuild after surviving each burn.

Sagebrush is often overshadowed by brighter blooms like balsam-root and lupine, but its quiet fortitude allows it to flourish in harsh conditions. Its gnarled branches and pungent scent remind me that beauty isn’t always obvious, but it’s there. I’ve walked through fires—grief, loss, and upheaval—but like the sagebrush, I’m still standing. I’ve grown from those challenges. I look for light in dark places.

The most important friendships in my life were formed in the sagebrush country of Eastern Washington. Like sagebrush that protects and supports the plants around it, these friends stood by me in the hardest times. When my friends and I decided to celebrate our 50th birthdays with matching tattoos, it was the perfect choice to symbolize our steadfast friendships. We each got our own version of the plant inked on our bodies, a reminder of everything we’ve experienced together.

Sagebrush blooms in early fall, taking its time, like my own journey to self-worth. It’s taken me years to untangle the shame, the rules, and the expectations that made me feel small. Now, as I stand in my 50s, I see that like the sagebrush, I am a survivor. Scarred but strong, weathered but still standing, deeply rooted in the connections that have carried me through.

My body is my own, and I’ve discovered my worth. I am enough.

The year she turned 50, Michele got her first tattoo: a branch of blooming sagebrush that starts on the outside of her left ankle and stretches up her calf. Photo credit: Michele Peters

Thank you,

Nan Tepper

, for the invitation and encouragement to write about my first tattoo.

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OLD ENOUGH

Here we go.

Another year on the books.
Another candle on the cake.
Another trip around the sun.

“How many?” You ask.
“What is the number?” You demand.
“I need to know.” You implore.

As many as it took for me to realize my value.
As many as it took for me to be brave.
As many as it took for me to stop with the goddamn guilt already.

“What will you do to celebrate?” You wonder.
“What are your plans?” You question.
“What will change?” You press.

I will summit the mountain.
I will get the tattoo.
I will jump from the plane.

“And what else?” You push.
“And what else?” You implore.
“And what else?” You urge.

I will take the trip.
I will write the book.
I will live the life.

“And what else?”
“And what else?”
“And what else?”

I will accept the past. And the present. And you. And me.
I will offer forgiveness to her. And him. And you. And me.
I will be kind to her. And him. And you. And me.

“How old are you, anyway?” Your voice quiets.
“How old are you?” Your words soften.
“How old?” You whisper.

Old enough.
Old enough.
Old enough.

-Michele Peters

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PS: My fiftieth birthday was my favorite so far. I wrote this poem that year, and I did all the things!

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The year she turned 50, Michele jumped from an airplane over the shrub-steppe landscape of Eastern Washington. Photo credit: go-pro by Skydive Chelan