“I had a nightmare last night that you got a tattoo,” my mother said to me anxiously over ten years ago when I was still living at home with her.

Those words never ceased to haunt me even when years later at 26 years of age I sat in a parlor chair and had a large and beautiful Monarch butterfly in a heart of vines tattooed onto my upper-back. But not only was my mother on my mind. My father who was dying of terminal brain cancer at the time was one of my main focuses. I was in the beginnings of a divorce from my best friend who I had spent 7 years with. And then of course there was the simple fact that I wanted this artwork on me for eternity. I had waited so long to express myself.

I took to heart every bit of pain and worry I was feeling in my present life and due to my present life and converted it into strength so as the ink needle was bearing down on my flesh I could enjoy it instead of flinch.

“You act like a veteran of tattooing,” says the artist after nearly 2 hours of time was spent already with minimal breaks.

The end result was amazing. So beautiful. So meaningful. I remember the love I had for my dying father as it was being designed. I thought of how despite my mother’s dislike of tattoos I was doing something I wanted so very much just for me. I thought about how hot it would be in summer tops that have a low neck in the back …exposing such a sexy masterpiece. I loved how much of a classy-bad-ass I looked. So, many reasons and so many meanings, and so very much a milestone.

And it was well worth it. And my mother actually liked it. She said: “I always knew you’d eventually get one. At least it isn’t some gaudy rose and heart with a dagger and the letters MOM scribbled inside of it.”