I have boundaries, Dammit! How a Misspelled Tattoo Sparked an Identity Crisis—and a Sojourn toward Self-Love
“I know what I’ll do today—I’ll get a tattoo!” I thought, watching the sunrise from my floor-to-ceiling window of the luxurious $22-a-night Airbnb in Santa Cruz, Bolivia, sprawled across a plush king-sized bed. It was a stark contrast to the thatched jungle hut where I had just spent ten days in the Amazon jungle, immersed in my first Ayahuasca retreat, where I was “re-born” fasting from salt, sugar, and distractions. Through four powerful ceremonies, I labored through the physical pain from a lifetime of soul wounds, or some might say, my traumas.
The last time I made an impulsive decision to get a tattoo was 16 years ago in New York City, where I had lived since college. There, in the city that never sleeps, where I could have been awarded a lifetime achievement for my dedication to nightlife before the age of 20, I transformed into a professional people-pleaser. I expertly juggled a packed social calendar, ambitious career goals, and a never-ending whirlwind of travel and parties—all designed to mask the deeper issues I wasn’t quite ready to face. For a long time, this coping mechanism worked well.
At 23 years old, I was gallivanting through the East Village, enjoying expensive cocktails that I couldn’t afford, oozing an “I can have whatever I want, whenever I want it” attitude. I was savoring my first taste of freedom—the very freedom I had dreamed of since I could talk. At just three years old, I had already made it clear to my father that I had no interest in being a child; I wanted to be an adult.
Hours later, I stumbled out of a St. Marks Street tattoo shop, freshly inked with “no boundaries” covering the entirety of my right torso. I woke up the next morning for work, hungover, but pleased with my dedication to being a little wild, and also, kind- of -having -it -all together at the same time.
Twenty-four hours after being branded, my friend called to inform me that, in fact, the tattoo artist had blatantly misspelled “boundaries” and permanently inked “No BOUNDIES” into my skin. From that moment, this big blob of ink, complete with tacky stars, would become part of my identity, seemingly for the rest of my life. Every time I would go to the toilet or look at myself in a full-length mirror, I was reminded, right, Danielle, you really pushed the boundary with this one.
In May of 2023, after 22 years of living in New York City, I put all of my stuff on the curb, and I left. I was working remotely, exploring life in new cities. But the tension that had been building inside – a relentless pressing weight that grew heavier with every passing day, a silent but urgent signal that I was living out of sync with myself. The longer I stayed in a role that no longer fit, the more it felt like I was suffocating under the weight of expectations that weren’t my own. Something had to give. I couldn’t keep contorting myself to fit a life that no longer felt like mine. It was time to walk away. My entire identity, a career-driven New Yorker who had built what others saw as a successful life – one I had painstakingly built over twenty years, curated by consciously controlling everything, while maintaining the appearance of a spontaneous bundle of energy, throwing myself into every experience with a contagious enthusiasm. Did I just really do this to myself, voluntarily? A jolt of fear ignited in my feet, shooting up my spine like a live wire, and for a split second, the world tilted—dotted with flashing stars that weren’t really there. If I wasn’t her anymore, then who was I?
Edging the unfathomable age of 40—without kids or a partner—I found myself living a reality I had once resented. For so long, I had viewed this as a shortcoming, an unfulfilled expectation. But in a moment of clarity, I realized it was, in fact, a gift. I had the freedom to make bold, terrifying, life-altering choices without the weight of family obligations tethering me down, a rare and unexpected privilege.
But with any big change, it comes with a cost. For me, this meant I needed to make some drastic changes in my spending habits. I had become a bit frivolous, spending carelessly, indulging myself in the comfort of my financial stability. It was time to say goodbye to artisanal toothpaste, overpriced asparagus waters, and the psychics (who by the way, never predicted this monumentous moment!), and return to the basics.
I booked a one-way flight to Ecuador with an oversized suitcase, carrying a keyboard, mouse and other office items while still gripping my agenda, intending to make to-do lists once there. Here I was in an island paradise, with no responsibility and a free ticket to chill the F out. But I was still trying to block my calendar with “important” meetings and lists that never got “to do-ed.” I decided to drown out my busy brain with audiobooks and podcasts, hoping someone would hand me a golden nugget of information that would launch me into an electrifying path of success—that aha moment—I’m onto the next thing! See everyone, I told you all I would figure it out!
Fresh off a full-body inhale of Michael Singer’s “Living Untethered” and “The Surrender Experiment”, I was convinced I had cracked the code to life. That was it—no more overthinking, no more forcing outcomes. I was surrendering! I was trusting the universe! I was ready to float effortlessly through life like a leaf on the cosmic breeze!
Cut to 24 hours later: Me, aggressively refreshing my inbox, Googling ‘how to surrender to the universe,’ and wondering why it hadn’t yet sent me a detailed itinerary for my new, perfectly aligned, struggle-free existence. Turns out, surrendering is a little harder than just declaring it dramatically to the ocean. Who knew?
I wish I could say this is where my journey to self-love and acceptance began. I wish I had eaten, prayed, and loved around the globe, waking up one day “enlightened”. But the truth is, a lifetime of people-pleasing, control, and boundlessness was screaming at me to LET GO! But I held on tightly, just by a thread, persistent in my resistance. Little did I know that six months later, I would be turbulently reborn again in the fringes of the Amazon jungle.
I glanced down at my right side, where the blurred ink of “No Boundies” clung to my skin like a ghost of my past. After enduring the raw, soul-stripping depths of an excruciating—yet undeniably transformative—plant medicine retreat, I knew with certainty: it was time to lay my boundless old self to rest.
The endless pursuit of having whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted it, no longer satisfied me. As long as I kept overextending myself and prioritizing others, I was trapped—spinning in place, mistaking motion for progress. The jungle stripped away every layer of my approval-seeking facade, forcing me to confront what had been missing all along—self-love.
I have spent most of my life portraying an “always-on” availability. This showed up as fierce dedication in my career and as the life of the party. And while I am still both fiercely dedicated and a magnet for socializing, much of my identity was rooted in a deeper need for validation. I believed that the right job, partner, house, and financial stability would bring me the inner contentment and sense of belonging I had always craved.
But, the internal peace I experienced would only come to me after being stripped down to my most primordial being. After a year of traveling through eight countries and a ferocious stint in the Bolivian jungle, I came face-to-face with the only thing left to surrender to—myself.
Back in Santa Cruz, Bolivia, I googled “tattoo artist near me.” Nine painstaking hours later, no boundies was gone – replaced by an Octopus, dancing on my side, her tentacles clutching symbolic treasures. A true Goddess.
Impulsive but not reckless.
A yes person but not a door-mat.
Hard-working but not misdirected.
Still one heck of a party thrower–just clean up after yourself!
The next morning, I boarded a flight to Spain, carrying a newfound sense of self—lighter in spirit, a new chapter of my identity now permanently inked. Bandaged and swollen on both sides (I left with two!), the fresh tattoos were a reminder of this gift. And this time, instead of regret, I felt pride. These marks aren’t just ink—they are a declaration, a badge of honor. I have boundaries now, dammit!
