Tattoos: Stories Beneath the Skin

Tattoos are funny things, aren’t they?

For some people, they’re art. For others, rebellion. For many of us, they’re chapters of our lives written permanently onto our skin. And if we’re honest, most people with tattoos probably have at least one that was done in a moment of madness — a “seemed like a good idea at the time” decision, a youthful impulse, or something chosen a little too quickly.

I definitely do.

(Not a name though — that has always been a firm no from me.)

The one I wouldn’t necessarily choose again sits at the base of my spine. Yes, the good old “tramp stamp” as they were once labelled. Thankfully it’s out of sight most of the time!

Although, according to my awesome tattooist Pete, they’re back on trend now. Everything comes around again.

But here’s the thing — even the tattoo I wouldn’t choose again is part of my story. It represents a time, a version of me, a chapter. And that, in itself, has value.

The Girl You’d Never Expect to Have Tattoos

I often shock people when they see my tattoos.

Apparently, I “don’t look like the type.” I’ve heard that so many times.

But I’m also the same woman who got her first tattoo a week before her 14th birthday. And not a tiny dolphin or rose like many girls of my generation. No — I went straight in with a Fulham Football Club tattoo on my tummy.

A football tattoo. At 13.

Looking back, it probably surprised people then too.

The next few tattoos came from books — picked off the wall in the way you do when you’re young. Those have since been covered and adapted as I’ve grown. The “tramp stamp,” however, remains.

Then came a 15-year gap.

Fifteen years without tattoos. Relationships where partners didn’t like them. Parts of me softened, muted, tucked away. Expression doesn’t always disappear loudly — sometimes it fades quietly.

And then, slowly, the real me began to resurface.

And the tattoos started again.

But this time, they were intentional.

Where Tattoos Began: Identity, Belonging, Spirit

Tattoos are not a modern trend. They are ancient.

Across Polynesian cultures, Māori communities, Japan, Egypt, and many Indigenous societies, tattoos were sacred. They represented ancestry, status, strength, protection, rites of passage, and spiritual connection.

Māori Tā Moko in particular is deeply personal. The placement, patterns, and flow tell a story — of lineage, identity, and lived experience. Nothing is random. Everything has meaning.

Traditionally, tattoos said:

This is who I am. This is where I come from. This is what I carry.

In many ways, that hasn’t changed.

The Ocean, The North, and Coming Home to Myself

When I returned to tattoos after that long gap, something had shifted. I wasn’t choosing from a book anymore. I was choosing from within.

Anyone who knows me knows the ocean is not just something I love — it’s something I feel spiritually connected to. Marine life, the movement of water, the depth and power of it — it’s grounding and expansive all at once.

But it’s not just the ocean imagery that holds meaning.

It’s also where I choose to be tattooed.

The Northlands of New Zealand hold a special place in my heart. There has always been a pull back there throughout my life — a grounding, almost ancestral-feeling connection. It’s hard to explain unless you’ve felt that kind of pull to a place.

Being tattooed there, at Bay of Islands INK, isn’t accidental. The geography itself feels significant. The land, the water, the energy of the North — it adds another layer to the symbolism. It feels aligned.

My tattoos now reflect that deeper connection:

• The Ta Moko ray on my hand (Bay of Islands INK)

• The hammerhead on my forearm

• Ta Moko Hei Matau (Bay of Islands INK)

• Whale tails, waves and anchors

• The mahi mahi and king fish once again Northland Ta Moko style which are the latest additions to a growing larger ocean piece working its way down my legs (Bay of Islands INK).

  
  
  

  

  

  

  

  

Even the rays on my thigh incorporate symbolism representing my boys — no names, just meaning woven into the design.

These aren’t just tattoos.

They are connection. They are identity. They are family. They are belonging. They are a spiritual thread tying me to the ocean and to a place that continually calls me back.

What Do Your Tattoos Say About You?

Tattoos today can mean many things.

Some are aesthetic. Some are rebellious. Some are deeply symbolic. Some are healing.

For me, they represent coming back to myself after years of dimming parts of who I was.

They represent strength, connection, motherhood, geography, and spirit.

Even that first football tattoo — as bold and unexpected as it was — symbolised passion and loyalty. Fulham Football Club shaped parts of my life and identity.

So perhaps that 13-year-old girl wasn’t reckless after all. She was expressing something important in the only way she knew how.

Maybe the meaning was always there.

The Message I Want to Pass On

On my last visit to Pete, we were talking about how my eldest is now older than I was when I got my first tattoo.

That’s a full-circle moment.

What I want to instil in my boys isn’t “don’t get tattoos.”

It’s this:

If you get one, make it yours. Make it mean something. Build it in. Let it represent your values, your story, your place in the world.

And don’t regret it.

Because every tattoo marks a time and place. Even the impulsive ones are snapshots of who you were in that moment.

Wellbeing isn’t about erasing old versions of yourself.

It’s about integrating them.

Honouring them.

Understanding that every chapter — even the messy or questionable ones — shaped you.

Ink as Integration

From a health and wellbeing perspective, tattoos can be surprisingly powerful.

They can help you reclaim your body. Reconnect to your identity. Mark resilience. Honour grief. Celebrate love. Anchor you to a place.

For me, they symbolise home — not just a physical place in the Northlands, but a coming home to myself.

So I’ll ask you the same question:

What do your tattoos say about you?

Are they stories? Are they lessons? Are they reminders of who you were — or who you’re becoming?

Whatever they are, they are part of your history.

And that history deserves to be honoured — ink and all.