My mother was renowned for her green thumb, particularly her spectacular dahlias. Every year, our front porch was graced by dinnerplate dahlias, almost comically large, thriving in repurposed barrels. These weren’t just flowers; they were her dahlias. Visitors would always marvel at their vibrant blooms and the woman who cultivated such beauty. They became synonymous with her.
When illness took hold, the garden, once her sanctuary, became neglected. Yet, even untended, the dahlias bloomed. They stood as a poignant reminder of the vibrant, capable woman she was before her body began to fail. Though I didn’t realize it then, these resilient flowers were a silent promise that her essence, her impact on me and the world, wouldn’t vanish with her last breath.
Years later, the desire for a dahlia tattoo took root within me. This wasn’t a fleeting whim, but a deep-seated yearning to memorialize her. However, a conflict arose: my mother’s staunch disapproval of tattoos. To her, they were symbols of rebellion, markers of a fringe lifestyle. It’s only in recent times that tattoos have gained wider acceptance as a legitimate art form and a means of personal expression.
Before her passing, tattoos weren’t even on my radar. The idea of permanent body art felt too… permanent. But in the years following her death, the thought of a tattoo as a tribute to her, the woman who shaped me, became increasingly compelling. An old conversation, from my early teens, echoed in my mind, a conversation that now seemed almost prophetic.
“What if I got a tattoo of something I would love forever?”
“Like what?”
“What if I got a tattoo for you, after you died?”
Her reaction then was vehemently negative. There was no doubt in my mind that she would have been horrified, deeply disappointed by my choice. In a way, getting a dahlia tattoo felt like a direct contradiction of her wishes. She never envisioned being permanently etched onto her daughter’s skin as a memorial.
Yet, I went ahead and got it anyway. And I have never regretted it for a moment.
Forging Your Own Path in Grief
Grieving a parent, especially at a young age, is in part about becoming your own parent. At twenty, I was navigating the uncharted waters of adulthood, making my own rules, setting my own boundaries. It was a time for self-discovery, for making mistakes and learning from them. I realized I needed to liberate myself from living life as I imagined my mother would have dictated, and instead, embrace living it authentically, my way. The tattoo wasn’t an act of rebellion against her memory, but a declaration of independence, a step towards forging my own identity. It was my way of acknowledging: I am who I am because of you, and also in spite of you.
This process of individuation is a natural part of growing up, even with living parents. As we mature, we renegotiate boundaries, and our parents’ influence on our decisions naturally lessens. Losing a parent accelerates this process, thrusting you into a new phase of self-reliance and self-definition.
The Enduring Appeal of Memorial Tattoos
Choosing to get inked as a memorial is certainly not the only, nor necessarily the “best,” way to honor someone. However, for many, this form of tribute offers unique and profound benefits:
- A Portable Memorial: A tattoo becomes an inseparable part of you, a constant reminder that travels with you wherever you go. Unlike photographs or objects, it’s always present.
- Deeply Personal: A memorial tattoo can be intensely personal, reflecting the unique bond you shared with your mother. Its meaning is often understood and appreciated most deeply by you alone.
- A Tribute For Yourself: Ultimately, a memorial tattoo is for the wearer. It’s a personal expression of love and remembrance, a way to process grief and keep the memory of a loved one alive within yourself.
- Permanent Love, Permanent Ink: It symbolizes the enduring nature of your love. Just as the tattoo is intended to last a lifetime, so too does your love for your mother remain a permanent part of your being.
Of course, there are valid considerations against getting a memorial tattoo. Some of my mother’s reservations still resonate today. If your profession is in a field where tattoos are still frowned upon, visible tattoos might present challenges. It’s also crucial to be reasonably certain that you’ll cherish your tattoo in the years to come. While tattoo regret is less common than perceived, especially with meaningful memorial tattoos, it’s still something to consider. For most, the connection to the memory deepens their appreciation for the ink over time.
If your relationship with your mother was complicated or fraught with conflict, a permanent tattoo might not be the most fitting tribute. If you anticipate that your feelings towards her might evolve significantly over time, there are other, less permanent forms of memorialization that might be more suitable. Traditional memorials offer flexibility and can be adapted as your grief journey unfolds.
Any hesitation about getting a tattoo should be heeded. It’s wise to wait until you feel completely confident and at peace with your decision. When I was wrestling with my own doubts, a friend offered a perspective-shifting thought: “Tattoos are actually the least permanent form of art—they only last as long as you do.” Having recently confronted the fragility of life and the inevitability of mortality, this resonated deeply. A tattoo, in the grand scheme of things, isn’t truly permanent at all. It’s a temporary inscription on a temporary vessel.
The Question of Pain
Yes, tattoos do cause pain. However, for most people, the discomfort is manageable. The initial moments can be the most intense, but often, adrenaline kicks in, carrying you through, depending on the size and placement of your memorial tattoo. Areas with more fat and fewer nerve endings tend to be less painful.
My dahlia tattoo was certainly not painless. But the physical discomfort of the needle was insignificant compared to the profound emotional pain of losing my mother. The brief, fleeting pain of the tattoo was a small price to pay for a lifetime of carrying her memory with me, visibly, tangibly.
Your Tribute, Your Choice
I often advocate for respecting a deceased loved one’s wishes, particularly regarding end-of-life decisions and memorialization. Honoring their expressed desires is a fundamental act of respect. But where do we draw the line when it comes to our own bodies, our own choices? At what point do we differentiate our living selves from the expectations of someone who is no longer here? Sometimes, truly honoring someone means growing, evolving, becoming self-sufficient, and living a life that is authentically our own.
My dahlia tattoo wasn’t for my mother in the sense of fulfilling her wishes. Nor was it an act of defiance. It was for me. For me, the dahlia embodies the enduring grief I carry, but also the enduring love and the indelible mark my mother left on my life. It’s a constant, beautiful reminder of her, etched not just on my skin, but in my heart.
