What We Carry
On tattoos, memory, and the marks we cannot see
My brother died in 2004.
Life was not always easy for him. He yearned for freedom, confidence, and peace.
So he placed symbols upon his body.
An eagle.
A Native American princess.
Each represented something he admired, something he sought, something he longed to embody.
Strength.
Freedom.
Courage.
Long after he was gone, those symbols endured.
I often wonder if someone had asked my brother the right questions and reflected his answers back to him, whether he would have noticed his own strength and courage.
Whether he would have recognized that the qualities he admired were already living within him.
It is a question I will never know the answer to.
Although he died more than two decades ago, I carry him in my heart and through my days still.
Perhaps that is where my fascination with tattoos began.
Not with the ink itself.
But with what people choose to carry with them.
Whenever I meet someone with a tattoo, I find myself asking the same question:
“What does it mean to you?”
Sometimes the answer is simple.
“It just felt right.”
“Because I liked it.”
Other times, the answer opens a door into a story worth listening to.
Recently, while shopping for lip gloss, I noticed a young woman with the words Self Love tattooed across the inside of her wrist.
“That’s a beautiful tattoo,” I said.
A nervous giggle escaped her as she thanked me.
What I really wanted to know was what those words meant to her.
“Why did you choose it?” I asked.
She paused.
“I do not know,” she said. “It just felt right.”
Curious, I pressed a little further.
“I am a writer,” I explained. “I would love to write about your tattoo.”
She stepped back and closed her eyes for a moment, searching for an answer.
“I think because self-love is important to a lot of people,” she finally replied. “I thought it should be important to me.”
When I asked about her own self-care practices, she did not have any.
Our conversation ended there.
It was not disappointing.
It was simply brief.
Yet I left thinking about the question that had drawn me to her in the first place.
What makes a symbol meaningful?
A few days later, while on vacation, I found myself sitting at a beachside restaurant enjoying truffle fries and an Americano.
Behind the counter was a waiter named Tommy.
As we talked, I noticed a large tattoo covering much of his left arm. Eve stood above a winding snake while holding an apple.
“That is an intricate tattoo,” I said.
Tommy smiled and rolled up his sleeve, revealing the full artwork.
“I would love to know the story behind her,” I said. “I am sure there is one.”
He finished drying a glass and set it down.
Then he stepped closer and pointed toward Eve.
“She reminds me to keep going.”
No hesitation.
No searching.
No uncertainty.
“She is like my conscience.”
He explained that he was six months alcohol-free.
The tattoo was a reminder of the choices he wanted to make and the life he wanted to build.
“Whenever I feel like I am slipping backward,” he told me, “I look at her and remember that I do not want to be misguided.”
In that moment, the tattoo became something entirely different.
Not decoration.
Not fashion.
Not art.
A commitment.
A conversation he carried with himself every day.
Tommy explained that being alcohol-free was only one choice.
He was choosing a healthier life.
A calmer life.
A more intentional life.
One of those choices, he told me, was remaining drama-free.
As he spoke, I found myself forgetting his age.
He was half mine.
Yet he spoke with a self-awareness that many people never reach.
He understood that the decisions he made today would shape tomorrow and the years that followed.
Tommy was not just a waiter.
He was also a business owner.
Our conversation wandered beyond tattoos and recovery. We talked about what success looks like for younger generations and how different the path can be today.
What impressed me most was not his age or his accomplishments.
It was his intentionality.
He understood that a drama-free life, a healthy life, and a purposeful life are not limitations.
They are choices.
They are investments.
They are freedom.
The kind of freedom my brother spent much of his life searching for.
Listening to him, I found myself thinking about my brother.
I wish my brother had possessed that same awareness.
That same confidence.
That same belief in himself.
He died at forty.
Perhaps that is another reason I ask people about their tattoos.
Perhaps each conversation keeps him close.
Tommy asked about him.
How did he die?
Why so young?
Even after all these years, I sometimes struggle to answer.
“He had a hard life,” I said, holding back tears.
For a moment, I thought about the symbols my brother carried.
The eagle.
The princess.
Strength.
Freedom.
Courage.
And somehow, sitting there with Tommy, I felt those qualities present in the conversation.
Not as tattoos.
As possibilities.
As truths.
As reminders.
I looked at him and said, “I know you will make the life you deserve.”
He smiled.
The kind of smile that comes from being seen.
Not for the tattoo.
Not for the story.
For the person becoming.
As I left the restaurant, I thought about the two conversations.
One person admired the words.
The other lived the meaning.
And then another thought arrived.
Some people wear tattoos on their skin.
Others wear tattoos on their soul.
Mine cannot be seen.
A boulder that taught endurance.
An ocean that taught trust.
A semicolon that reminded me to continue.
An infinity symbol that taught me love does not end.
A constellation of people who appeared when I needed them most and helped light the way forward.
None of these were made with ink.
Yet all of them have become part of me.
Perhaps that is what symbols are meant to do.
Not simply decorate our lives.
But guide them.
What symbols do you carry?
What experiences have left their mark upon you?
What tattoos live on your soul?
With Love,
Chellie 🩷
The only song that fit—Free Bird, my brother’s song.
Yes, I will always remember you. 🩷
If this story touched something inside you, I’d be honored to hear your reflections
Whether you’ve lived through chaos, rebuilt your voice, or carried wounds no one else could see, your story matters. Sharing reminds us that we are not alone in the slow, powerful work of becoming.
If this piece resonated, I’d be grateful for a like, a comment, or a share.
Chellie Grossman is a Certified Life Coach, Keynote Speaker, and Writer who empowers leaders to reclaim their voice, embrace their strength, and lead with authenticity and purpose.
This is beautiful. I had a similar thought about my mother yesterday. My mother grew up abandoned by her mother and always found love in the wrong places. She became an alcoholic and died of leukemia when she was 53. So many memories, but I do remember when she was trying to forge ahead. She wanted to open a sewing store (she was amazing at it). She also started taking classes to change careers from bartending to office work towards the end of her life. Anyway, I thought about her and how many people didn’t ask her the right questions, take her under her wing, and simply love her. It made me sad. A woman with a fighting spirit was barely noticed.
Thank you for sharing!