I have boundaries, Dammit! How a Misspelled Tattoo Became a Symbol of My Undoing—and Becoming

“I know what I’ll do today—I’ll get a tattoo!” I thought, watching the sunrise from my floor-to-ceiling window in a luxurious $22-a-night Airbnb in Santa Cruz, Bolivia. Sprawled across a king-sized bed, I soaked in the comforts of my surroundings—worlds away from the mosquito-netted jungle hut where I’d just spent ten days deep in the Amazon on my first Ayahuasca retreat. Ten days of fasting from salt, sugar, and distractions. Ten days of facing myself.

Through four ceremonies, laboring through excruciating physical pain, the walls I’d built to outrun my own feelings finally started to crack, making space to face the parts of myself I’d been too busy, too tough, and too stubborn to feel. And now, stripped down to something real and unfamiliar, I needed to stamp this new version of myself into existence. A tattoo.

The last time I got a spontaneous tattoo, I was 23 and high on New York City adrenaline, swirling martinis in the East Village, radiating that I can have whatever I want, whenever I want it energy. I grew up surrounded by beauty—beaches, woods, and a tight-knit small town full of pride. But even in all that richness, I always felt restless, like the world I was meant for was somehow bigger, louder, and just out of reach.

My father told me that at three years old, I had articulately declared: “I don’t want to be a kid. I want to be a grown-up.”

Now, here I was—young, fearless, and finally living inside the very freedom I had ached for my entire life. In that moment, I was. I had arrived.

Naturally, a few cocktails later, I strutted into a St. Marks tattoo shop and walked out with the words “No Boundaries” sprawled across my torso in bold, tacky lettering. The next morning, still buzzing with reckless pride, I admired my ink with the kind of swagger only a twenty-something can muster. Until a friend called.

“You know that ‘boundaries’ is spelled wrong, right?”

And just like that, “No Boundies” became a permanent punchline. Every look in the mirror, every trip to the toilet, every beach day was a reminder: You did this, Danielle. You really pushed the boundies.

Fast forward twenty years. In May of 2023, after two decades in New York City, I left. I put everything I owned on the curb and walked away from a career and identity I had built with tireless precision. A curated existence: the career-driven, always-on, effervescent New Yorker. Underneath it all was a woman who had perfected the art of control while projecting effortless spontaneity.

But the weight was unbearable. The longer I stayed in a life that didn’t fit, the heavier it became. I wasn’t burnt out—I was suffocating under the expectations I had authored. If I wasn’t her anymore, then who was I?

Edging toward 40 without a partner or kids, I found myself living the exact life I used to dread. And yet, this moment was strangely liberating. I had the freedom to make bold, terrifying choices without the gravitational pull of family obligations. I wasn’t anchored—and for the first time, that felt like a gift.

But freedom has a price. I had to break up with careless spending and indulgences that had become customary. Goodbye, artisanal toothpaste and psychic readings (none of whom, by the way, predicted this plot twist). I booked a one-way flight to Ecuador with an overstuffed suitcase full of office supplies—still clinging to my agenda, ready to plan, even in paradise.

There I was, on a dreamy beach with no responsibilities, yet furiously blocking my calendar with imaginary meetings. I drowned my busy brain in self-help audiobooks, desperate for a golden nugget of wisdom to set me back on course. Something. Anything.

After back-to-back doses of Michael Singer’s Living Untethered and The Surrender Experiment, I declared to the sea, “I’m ready! I’m surrendering! I trust the universe!”

Twenty-four hours later, I was aggressively refreshing my inbox and Googling, “how to surrender to the universe correctly.”

Apparently, surrendering is more than a dramatic monologue at the edge of the ocean. Who knew?

I wish I could tell you that this was the beginning of my spiritual awakening. That I emerged, radiant and enlightened, ready to eat, pray, love my way around the world. But the truth is, my decades of people-pleasing, perfectionism, and performative “boundlessness” weren’t going quietly. I was gripping control with white-knuckled fists, even as life begged me to let go.

It wasn’t until six months later, still traveling on my sojourn that I found myself deep in the Bolivian jungle, stripped down by sweat, ceremony, and soul, that I came face to face with the only thing left to surrender to: myself.

And in that moment, I remembered the now faded tattoo. “No Boundies.” The sad joke of a misguided declaration now felt like the final thread of an identity I no longer wore. I didn’t know how yet, but I had changed. It was time for the ink to evolve, too.

Back in Santa Cruz, I Googled, “tattoo artist near me.” Nine hours later, the typo was gone, replaced by a regal octopus, her tentacles cradling symbolic treasures—each one chosen to honor the woman I had become.

 Impulsive but not reckless.

A yes person but not a door-mat.

Dedicated but not misdirected.

Still one heck of a party thrower—just not losing sleep over whether the napkins match the vibe.

The next morning, swollen and bandaged, I boarded a flight to Spain with a lighter spirit and a new kind of mark—one born from clarity, not chaos.

This time, there was no regret. Only pride. The ink wasn’t a cover-up—it was a resurrection.

I have boundaries now, dammit.