Is looking different, being different?

About Gas Stations, Tattoos, and the Illusion of a First Glance

The Look That Decides

What do you see when you look?

Is what you see really what is? Or are we all – consciously or unconsciously – filling in the blanks ourselves?

Is first love really true love? Or are we all just victims of the optional illusion?

I experience it daily: that look. The look that says, “You don’t fit in the box.”

And honestly? I get it. I look different than most people.

But does that really make me so different? At the core… aren’t we all the same?

Gas Station Truths

Take that one time at the gas station…

Yes, buckle up, because this is a perfect example of the illusion of perception.

I park my Fiat 500 – yup, a super cute little car with my border collie Orisha as my co-pilot on the back seat – and go to fuel up. I pay at the machine, grab the nozzle, and… nothing. Not a drop of gas.

Weird.

A woman parks behind me, gets out, and starts fueling without a problem.

I walk around the pump and notice that the price display at my pump only shows 98 gasoline. No 95. Aha. There’s the issue.

I kindly ask her: “Is it working for you? Mine doesn’t do anything.”

Her look says it all:

Doubt. Distrust. Prejudice.

She says: “Did you even pay?”

Uhm… seriously?

Ouch. That one stung.

I could feel the energy shift all the way to my pinky toe.As if I was standing there to steal gas. With my rasta looks, tattoos, and dreads, I clearly didn’t fit her ‘safety profile’.

I thanked her with a smile (one that said: “Honey, no worries, I’m not stealing your fuel”).

I drove to another pump. That one worked.

I saw her look change. Relief.

Maybe even a hint of shame.

She hadn’t seen me for who I was, but for what I looked like at first glance. The illusion was real.

And then I think… really? Am I that much of a threat? A woman alone. In a Fiat 500. With a fluffy border collie. Ever heard of a female rasta hippie committing armed robbery with dreadlocks blowing in the wind? 😂

My Face, My Story

Yes, I have tattoos on my face.

And no, it’s not a criminal label – it’s ancestral art.

They are the lines of my roots, the symbols of an ancient tribe that lives deep inside me. It’s my ancestors’ tribe I feel.

Centuries ago, a tattooed body was as normal as shoes on your feet. Tattoos weren’t fashion – they were identity. They gave you strength, protection, connection. They told who you were, where you came from, who your people were. That’s not rebellion. That’s heritage.

My skin tells my story.

Not a copy, not a Pinterest image, not an impulse.

Every symbol, every line, is an echo of my roots.

It’s ancestral. It’s sacred. It’s me.

I Am the Tattoo

I didn’t choose a tattoo, I am the tattoo.

It’s not decoration, it’s recognition.

My tattoo artist translates who I am into images that live on my skin.

Unique. Incredibly personal.

That’s why I don’t share it. Not because I don’t want to, but because I can’t.

I’m not a product, not a print, not version 2.0.

I am a living, breathing piece of art that cannot be duplicated.

I already itch at the thought that someone might have the same tattoo as me.

Every line of ink on my body tells a part of my story. It’s not a fashion accessory. It’s a manifestation. It’s not decoration, it’s identification. I am the body. This is me.

I am my own unique Being. And I dive into it, with every cell, with every fiber, with all my heart.

Let Me Dance

Let me color my body, rather than hang Picasso posters on my walls.

Let me feel my African roots pulsing through my veins.

Let me wear my hair how I want – wild, free, and connected to nature.

Let me get lost in summer markets, sand between my toes, music dancing through my hips.

That’s where my soul sings, where rules soften and freedom breathes.

I am who I am: A rasta hippie on the route.

But don’t get me wrong. I also admire those who find peace in structure, who fold their lives like neatly pressed napkins. A little house, a garden, a tidy existence.

I see you, and I respect you 🙏🏻

Don’t Judge the Cover

We live in a time where everything is visual, and yet we truly see so little.

We judge faster than we feel.

Do you look beyond appearance?

Do you feel the heart behind the image?

So… Don’t get caught by the view. Don’t be fooled by heritage or tattoos.

Feel how warm and soft a heart beats behind what you think is strange.

Look beyond the eye – beyond the surface – and maybe, just maybe… you’ll discover a hidden diamond 💎 in someone you once dismissed.

Who knows… maybe that odd bird is exactly your little slice of joy on an unlucky day.

Don’t judge the story by its cover – you might miss the chapter that changes your life. 💕

Thanks to the Artists

Yes, I have tattoos on my face.

No, I’m not here to rob your gas station.

I’m here to live. Truly live. In my body, in my roots, in my truth. Because this body, this story, this cover – was shaped with love.

A deep bow to the artists who helped make my soul visible:

🖤 Tattoo Tanne – soul sister & tattoo magician. 80% of my body carries her work.

🖤 Piercing Hetty – facial adornments that are both soft and strong.

🖤 Brett Tassenon – handpoke artist, handled my tribal facial tattoo.

🖤 Kiki Van Bussel – PMU brows that make me glow wild and real.

🖤 Borneoheadhunters – for the traditional women’s weave.

🖤 Into The Woods – for the colors in my art story.

🖤 Maanwever – my magical dreads.

One by one, beautiful, warm people in a unique book cover.

To Close

Maybe it’s that unexpected encounter, that ‘other’ book, that look from a stranger on an ordinary day – that pulls you out of your own little box. That touches you. That wakes you up.

And then suddenly you realize: “Beauty doesn’t lie in what you recognize, but in what you dare to meet.”

Let your gaze be an invitation, not a filter. Because behind every story lies a human. And behind every human… maybe a hidden diamond 💎.

BOOM. Truth dropped.