Ink Doesn't Have an Undo Button

Some Mistakes Are Harder to Erase Than Others

Here's something about my past that might surprise people who only know me through my professional career.

More than ten years ago, I was a tattoo artist.

Yes, an actual tattoo artist.

As in, permanently putting artwork on another human being's skin.

It's a pretty interesting chapter of my life to look back on, particularly considering where my career eventually took me.

I've spent years working in leadership, coaching, organizational development, and now engineering management.

Not necessarily the career trajectory someone might expect from a person who once spent their time holding a tattoo machine.

But the more I reflect on my experiences, the more I've realized how much that chapter taught me about responsibility.

Because being a tattoo artist comes with a reality that most professions don't have to contend with quite so directly.

When you fuck up, your mistake can become a permanent part of someone else's life.

Think about that.

You're not working on a document where you can simply hit undo.

You're not building something where you can delete the last few changes and start over.

You're putting something on another person's body that they may carry with them for the rest of their life.

And that person has trusted you to do it.

They've placed their confidence in your abilities.

Your judgment.

Your attention to detail.

Your commitment to doing the best work you're capable of producing.

And I think that kind of trust changes how you approach your responsibilities.

At least, it certainly changed how I approached mine.

Your Bad Day Shouldn't Become Someone Else's Permanent Reminder

One of the most important lessons I learned from tattooing was that the person sitting in my chair deserved my best effort regardless of what kind of day I was having.

Maybe I hadn't slept particularly well.

Maybe something was bothering me.

Maybe I was frustrated about something completely unrelated to tattooing.

Maybe I simply wasn't feeling especially creative that day.

None of those things changed the responsibility I had to the person trusting me with their skin.

They weren't responsible for whatever was happening in my personal life.

They weren't paying me to worry about whether I was having a good day.

They were trusting me to create something that would become a permanent part of them.

And I owed them my attention.

My preparation.

My care.

My best possible work.

I couldn't allow the baggage I walked in with to become something they walked out wearing.

That's a lesson I've carried into every professional role I've held since.

Because while the consequences of our mistakes may not always be permanent, the people affected by our actions still deserve to be treated with care.

When I worked in customer service, the person calling with a problem didn't deserve a worse experience simply because the previous customer had been difficult.

When I worked in client success, someone trusting me to help resolve an issue didn't need to inherit my frustration from something that had happened earlier that day.

As a Scrum Master, the team I served didn't deserve an impatient or dismissive version of me because I was carrying stress from a completely unrelated situation.

And now, as an engineering leader, the people who trust me to support their careers, development, and well-being deserve the same consideration.

They shouldn't have to guess which version of me is going to show up based on whether my morning went according to plan.

Now, let me make an important distinction.

I'm not suggesting that we should ignore our emotions, suppress our struggles, or pretend to be perfectly fine when we're not.

We're human beings.

We have difficult days.

We experience stress, disappointment, frustration, and exhaustion.

And sometimes the most responsible thing we can do is acknowledge that we're not in the right condition to perform a task safely or effectively.

As a tattoo artist, that might mean recognizing when you need to stop, take a break, or reschedule rather than push through and risk a permanent mistake.

As a leader, it might mean recognizing that you're not in the right frame of mind to have an important conversation and finding a better time to give someone the attention they deserve.

Professionalism isn't pretending that nothing affects you. It's understanding your responsibility to the people who could be affected by how you respond.

That's what leaving your baggage at the door means to me.

Not denying its existence.

Not pretending it isn't heavy.

But recognizing that other people shouldn't have to carry it simply because you happen to be carrying it yourself.

The Pressure of Permanence

There's something fascinating about how our behavior changes when the consequences of our decisions become difficult to reverse.

When I was tattooing, I couldn't approach the work casually.

Preparation mattered.

Attention mattered.

The little details mattered.

Because a seemingly insignificant mistake could become incredibly significant when it was permanently attached to someone else's body.

And I think that experience gave me a healthy appreciation for the relationship between responsibility and consequence.

But it also introduced something I've spent years thinking about.

Pressure.

Because when every mistake carries a potentially permanent consequence, there's an enormous amount of pressure to get things right.

That pressure can encourage preparation and attention to detail.

But it can also create hesitation.

Fear.

An unwillingness to experiment.

A tendency to become so concerned about making a mistake that you begin limiting what you're willing to attempt.

And while that caution is entirely appropriate when someone's body is involved, I've come to appreciate that not every environment benefits from operating under the same expectations.

In fact, I would argue that many of our workplaces would be better off if we stopped treating every mistake as though someone had just permanently tattooed the wrong thing on another human being.

Because most of us aren't working in situations where every error carries irreversible consequences.

We're not all performing surgery.

We're not all flying commercial aircraft.

We're not all responsible for decisions where a single mistake could cost someone their life.

Of course, plenty of professions carry significant risks, and even seemingly ordinary decisions can sometimes have serious consequences.

But in much of our day-to-day work, the stakes are considerably lower than we behave as though they are.

A presentation contains an error.

A feature doesn't work as expected.

An experiment produces disappointing results.

A decision turns out to be less effective than we anticipated.

Someone tries a new approach and discovers it doesn't work.

Are those situations ideal?

No.

Should we learn from them?

Absolutely.

But should every one of those mistakes become some defining judgment about a person's competence or value?

I don't believe so.

And I think that's where the lessons I learned from tattooing become particularly interesting.

The experience taught me to respect the consequences of mistakes, but it also helped me appreciate environments where mistakes don't have to become permanent.

I've Learned to Appreciate the Freedom to Get Things Wrong

One of the things I've come to value most about the work I do today is the opportunity to learn through experimentation.

To try something.

Observe what happens.

Recognize what didn't work.

Make an adjustment.

And try again.

That might not sound particularly remarkable.

But when you've spent time in an environment where mistakes can be incredibly difficult to correct, the ability to learn without causing lasting harm becomes something you appreciate.

And I think it's something organizations should be much more intentional about creating.

Because there's a difference between expecting excellence and expecting perfection.

Excellence is something we can continually pursue.

It encourages us to develop our capabilities, refine our judgment, and improve the quality of our work.

Perfection, on the other hand, can become a standard that discourages the very experimentation necessary for improvement.

If people believe every mistake will be held against them, they're going to behave differently.

They'll hesitate to challenge assumptions.

They'll become reluctant to make decisions.

They'll avoid taking risks.

And they'll begin protecting themselves from failure rather than pursuing opportunities to create value.

I've seen how easily this can happen within organizations.

A team makes a mistake.

Leadership responds by introducing additional controls.

Those controls create more friction.

The friction makes it harder for people to act independently.

And eventually, the organization wonders why the team seems unwilling to take ownership or demonstrate initiative.

We tell people to innovate while building environments that punish them for trying anything unfamiliar.

There's a contradiction there.

You cannot reasonably expect people to explore what's possible while teaching them that getting something wrong is unacceptable.

That's not an argument for carelessness.

It's an argument for understanding the difference between risks that need to be prevented and risks that can create valuable opportunities for learning.

When the consequences are significant, we should be cautious.

When the consequences are manageable and recoverable, we should be willing to experiment.

The challenge is developing the judgment to recognize which environment we're operating in.

Just Because You Can Fix It Doesn't Mean You Should Be Careless

There's another side to this philosophy that I think deserves attention.

Because I don't want anyone interpreting the ability to make mistakes as permission to stop caring about the quality of their work.

That's not the lesson.

Quite the opposite.

Tattooing taught me that the people affected by my work deserve my best effort.

And I believe that remains true regardless of how reversible the outcome might be.

Just because a software defect can be corrected doesn't mean we should be comfortable releasing poorly tested software.

Just because a customer interaction isn't permanent doesn't mean we should be dismissive or careless.

Just because a leadership decision can be revisited doesn't mean we should make it without considering the people who might be affected.

The opportunity to recover from a mistake doesn't eliminate our responsibility to act thoughtfully in the first place.

It simply gives us an opportunity to respond constructively when things don't go as planned.

And that's an important distinction.

Mistakes should be acceptable. Negligence shouldn't be.

I want the people I work with to experiment.

I want them to challenge existing approaches.

I want them to feel comfortable making decisions.

But I also want them to recognize that their actions have consequences, even when those consequences can be corrected.

The objective isn't to create an environment where nothing matters.

It's to create one where people care deeply about the quality of their work without becoming so afraid of failure that they stop learning.

And I think that requires something we don't always discuss enough.

Accountability.

Own It. Learn From It. Don't Repeat It.

If I had to reduce everything I learned from tattooing into a few simple principles, I think it would come down to three things.

Take ownership of your mistakes. Learn from your mistakes. And do everything reasonably within your control to prevent the same mistakes from happening again.

That first part is probably the most important.

Ownership.

I've never understood why we sometimes work so hard to avoid acknowledging when we've gotten something wrong.

We blame circumstances.

We point to missing information.

We explain why someone else contributed to the outcome.

We describe all the reasons the mistake was understandable.

And sometimes those explanations are completely valid.

Circumstances matter.

Systems matter.

Other people's decisions matter.

But none of those things necessarily eliminates our responsibility to acknowledge the role we played.

There's something powerful about being able to say:

I made a mistake.

No elaborate justification.

No attempt to redirect attention.

Just an honest acknowledgment of what happened.

Now, that doesn't mean taking responsibility for things entirely outside your control.

Accountability should be fair.

But when we recognize that our actions contributed to an undesirable outcome, I believe we have a responsibility to own that contribution.

Because if we can't acknowledge the mistake, how can we meaningfully learn from it?

And that brings us to the second principle.

Learning.

I don't believe simply recognizing that something went wrong is enough.

We need to understand why.

What assumptions did we make?

What information were we missing?

What could we have done differently?

Were there warning signs we overlooked?

Was the problem caused by an individual decision, or did the surrounding system make the mistake more likely?

Those questions matter.

Because without understanding what contributed to the outcome, we may find ourselves repeating the same behavior and hoping for a different result.

Which brings me to the third principle.

Don't let it happen again.

Now, I realize that's easier said than done.

We're human.

Sometimes we'll repeat mistakes despite our best intentions.

Sometimes we'll recognize a pattern only after we've experienced it more than once.

And sometimes the circumstances are complicated enough that preventing a similar problem requires changes beyond our individual control.

But the principle remains.

Learning from a mistake should eventually change something about how we approach the work.

Maybe we introduce a better review process.

Maybe we ask an additional question.

Maybe we develop a new skill.

Maybe we recognize that we need to involve someone with more experience.

Maybe we change the environment so the same problem becomes less likely to occur.

The specific action will depend on the situation.

But there should be some connection between what we've learned and what we do differently moving forward.

Otherwise, have we really learned?

Or have we simply acknowledged what happened and moved on?

As a Leader, I Want People to Feel Safe Owning Their Mistakes

One of the most meaningful ways my experience as a tattoo artist has influenced my leadership is through how I think about accountability.

Because I believe there's an enormous difference between holding someone accountable and making someone afraid to admit they made a mistake.

And I think organizations sometimes confuse the two.

When something goes wrong, the immediate reaction is often to determine who's responsible.

Who made the decision?

Who missed the detail?

Who approved the change?

Who should have caught the problem?

Those questions can be relevant.

But if identifying someone to blame becomes our primary objective, we're probably overlooking an opportunity to understand what actually happened.

I've always been much more interested in what we can learn from a mistake than in making someone feel terrible for having made it.

That doesn't mean consequences are never appropriate.

Intentional misconduct, repeated carelessness, and avoidable behavior that puts others at risk may require more direct intervention.

But an honest mistake made while someone was thoughtfully attempting to solve a problem deserves a different response.

I want my engineers to feel comfortable telling me when something didn't work.

I want them to raise concerns early.

I want them to acknowledge when they've made an assumption that turned out to be wrong.

And I want them to trust that admitting a mistake isn't automatically going to damage their credibility.

Because the alternative is much more concerning.

A team where people hide problems.

Where mistakes are discovered too late because someone was afraid to speak up.

Where individuals spend more energy protecting themselves than solving the issue.

That's not accountability.

That's fear.

And fear is an incredibly poor foundation for building a high-performing team.

I would rather know about a mistake immediately and work together to resolve it than discover it weeks later because someone was afraid of how I'd respond.

But that kind of openness doesn't happen simply because a manager tells people it's safe.

It develops through repeated experiences.

How do we respond when someone admits they got something wrong?

Do we become frustrated?

Do we embarrass them?

Do we immediately question their competence?

Or do we approach the situation with curiosity, understand what happened, and work together to determine what needs to change?

Those responses teach people what accountability actually means within the team.

And I think leaders have an enormous responsibility to get that right.

Your Personal Baggage Doesn't Disappear When You Become a Leader

There's another lesson from those years that I find myself returning to.

Compartmentalization.

Learning how to recognize what's happening in one part of your life without allowing it to unnecessarily affect everything else.

I developed an appreciation for that while tattooing because the work demanded my attention.

Whatever was happening outside that moment couldn't become more important than the responsibility I had to the person in front of me.

And I think leadership requires a similar kind of awareness.

There are days when I'm frustrated.

Days when I'm tired.

Days when something is weighing on my mind.

And days when the last thing I particularly want to do is have another difficult conversation.

But the people I lead still deserve to be treated with respect.

They deserve thoughtful feedback.

They deserve patience.

And they deserve to know that my expectations of them aren't going to change dramatically depending on what kind of day I'm having.

I think that's an important part of consistency.

Because when people don't know how their leader is going to respond, they begin adjusting their behavior around that uncertainty.

They hesitate to raise concerns.

They become cautious about asking questions.

They spend energy trying to anticipate someone's mood rather than focusing on the work.

And I never want to create that kind of environment.

But I've also learned that compartmentalization has limitations.

You can't simply put every difficult emotion into a box and expect it to disappear.

Eventually, you have to address the things you're carrying.

You have to recognize when you need rest.

When you need help.

When you need to step away.

And when continuing to push through something might actually make the situation worse.

I've come to believe that the most responsible approach isn't to pretend that our personal experiences don't affect us.

It's to develop enough self-awareness to recognize when they do.

Then make an intentional decision about how to respond.

The people around us deserve our professionalism, but that shouldn't require us to abandon our humanity.

And sometimes demonstrating that humanity means admitting that we're having a difficult day too.

Maybe the Best Lesson Was Learning When the Stakes Actually Matter

Looking back, I find it interesting that spending time in a profession where mistakes could be permanent helped me develop a greater appreciation for environments where they aren't.

Because it taught me to ask a question I still find incredibly valuable.

What's actually at risk here?

Is this a situation where we need to exercise extraordinary caution?

Or is this an opportunity to experiment, learn, and improve?

Are we dealing with a decision that could have lasting consequences for another person?

Or are we treating a relatively minor inconvenience as though it's some irreversible catastrophe?

I think learning to distinguish between those situations is an important part of developing good judgment.

Not every problem deserves the same level of urgency.

Not every mistake requires the same response.

And not every decision should be approached with the same tolerance for risk.

Sometimes the stakes are incredibly high.

Sometimes they're relatively low.

And sometimes the greatest mistake we can make is failing to recognize the difference.

As a leader, I want to help teams develop that judgment.

To recognize when preparation and caution are essential.

To identify opportunities where experimentation is appropriate.

And to understand that mistakes should become sources of learning rather than permanent labels attached to someone's abilities.

Because while a tattoo may become a permanent part of someone's skin, a professional mistake shouldn't automatically become a permanent part of someone's identity.

People grow.

They develop.

They learn.

They become more capable through the experiences they have, including the ones that don't turn out the way they hoped.

And I think our responsibility as leaders is to help make that growth possible.

The Lessons That Stay With Us

It's funny how life works.

More than a decade ago, I was holding a tattoo machine, focused on creating something that another person would carry with them long after they left my chair.

Today, I spend much of my time helping people develop their careers, supporting engineers as they solve complicated problems, and trying to create environments where teams can perform at their best.

Very different work.

Very different responsibilities.

But some of the lessons have remained remarkably consistent.

Show up prepared.

Respect the trust people place in you.

Don't allow your personal frustrations to become someone else's problem.

Recognize the consequences of your actions.

Take responsibility when you get something wrong.

Learn from the experience.

And make intentional changes so you can do better the next time.

But perhaps most importantly, recognize that not every mistake needs to become permanent.

I don't want people to be careless.

I don't want them to become comfortable producing poor-quality work.

And I certainly don't want to create an environment where accountability disappears simply because we believe mistakes are part of learning.

I want something more intentional than that.

I want people to approach their work with the same care and responsibility I learned to appreciate while tattooing, but without carrying the fear that every imperfect outcome will follow them forever.

Take the work seriously. Take responsibility for your actions. But don't take every mistake as a permanent judgment of who you are or what you're capable of becoming.

Because the goal isn't to become someone who never makes mistakes.

That's not realistic.

The goal is to become someone who responds to mistakes with honesty, humility, curiosity, and a genuine commitment to improvement.

And if we're in a position to lead others, our responsibility extends beyond how we respond to our own mistakes.

We have to help create environments where other people can do the same.

Where they can experiment thoughtfully.

Where they can admit when something goes wrong.

Where they can ask for help.

Where they can learn without being humiliated.

And where their growth is measured not simply by how often they succeed, but by how intentionally they respond when they don't.

I may not be a tattoo artist anymore.

But I still carry the lessons that experience left behind.

Which is probably appropriate.

After all, tattooing taught me that some things stay with you for life.

The difference is that the most valuable things I took from that experience weren't left on someone's skin.

They were the lessons I learned about responsibility, trust, and what it means to do right by the people counting on you.

And those are things I hope I never erase.