I was 38 years old when I got my first tattoo on October 6, 2016. My mother’s name, Eryka, was scripted across my right foot.
The decision was a complete surprise, even to me. I had never been interested in tattoos, yet the idea arrived so suddenly and powerfully during a quiet walk on the beach, almost as if it were a message.
I felt a small thrill of rebellion. My mother always verbalised her distaste for tattoos. I always found this quite humorous, as my father was covered in them, collected from his time in the Royal Navy. Part of me knew she wouldn’t have necessarily ‘given her blessing,’ but I was confident I wouldn’t regret this. This tattoo was my way to celebrate her memory and reclaim her presence in my life—a deeply personal and empowering act. The design had to be elegant and delicate, a beautiful tribute as graceful as her signature.
I had a wonderfully humble and happy childhood, a huge Polish family, uncles, aunts, cousins, lodgers, friends a plenty. My mother made every moment count and included everyone into our lives. She would cook endlessly for everyone, play with us when she could, and always invite everyone who walked into our lives over for ‘Tea’. She was the entertainer of the Town, the street, and our house. Looking back on reality, she was always in pain or struggling with her health issues, but somehow managed to bring all her strength and happiness to others, especially her family. Finally, after countless operations and a short struggle with ovarian cancer, she was no longer with us. Mother, wife, sister, daughter aged 41. At 17 years of age, with a younger sister of 10, my father was thrown into the role of bringing up two teenage girls after losing the pillar of love that he had only ever known. Looking back now, it was as though the glue had come unstuck in every part of our lives. Eryka was the one you went to with your problems, the one who always hosted in our tiny little house, who brought joy and laughter to every situation, and who showed my father how to love and be the best version of himself.
Sadly, this was just too much for all of us, and my father turned to drinking and was no longer the father I knew and grew up with. I ran away, literally. I went to Liverpool for a night out and never came back —a place where everyone seemed to welcome me and instantly accepted me into their friend circle and family. During this time, my own huge family broke down, we lost contact with each other (no Facebook back then), my father was unable to be there for me, and I was utterly alone. I dropped out of school 6 months before my finals. I became involved in an abusive relationship, years of drug abuse, and at times sleeping on the streets or running away to the middle of nowhere to escape the nightmare I was living in, only to hope my aunt Julie would come and save me and hold me for a moment. Or I was teleported to my grandmother, who literally brought me up as a child. Whenever I would come home from school, and my mother was in the hospital again for weeks on end, I would stay with my grandparents.
I would stay with my grandparents whenever my mother was taken to the hospital. She would be there sometimes for weeks on end. We were so close. It never happened; no one came, and no one was there, just me.
We were so so close. It never happened; no one came, and no one was there, just me.
Fast forward a few years after my mum’s death, and in the midst of my drug use, somehow I found a group of friends that helped me get out of the relationship and into a safe space. I knew that all I wanted in life, more than anything, first and foremost, was to be a mother and to try to bring joy and happiness to my children’s lives for as long as possible. The urge to become a mother was so strong that I just stopped everything I was doing that was destructive to me. I wanted to make my mother proud because I knew, sure as hell, what I was currently doing would have made her sad for me.
Years later, as a mother myself with 2 beautiful, healthy, funny children, Charlotte and Joe. I felt truly blessed with a wonderful home, constant parties, and guests. Beyond my wildest dreams, I could not have imagined being in Madrid, bringing up my family, speaking another language, and travelling the world. It was all I had ever wanted and more. The journey to healing wasn’t exactly linear. As I got older and the children grew, it was only then that I felt I was beginning to process the grief and sadness of missing my mother. I thought about what a fantastic grandmother she would be and how sad I was that my children didn’t get the chance to meet her. Would she be proud of me? With my husband’s love and support, I could go back to my studies that I left behind all those years ago. I seemed to have everything anyone could dream of. It was then that the thoughts and feelings of my mother came flooding back. There was no physical location or special place on earth to remember her.
After the funeral, my Father chose a location to scatter her ashes, it was a strange choice by all accounts as it was a relatively recent happy place for my mother, and I never really understood why we children had no say in the matter or were ever consulted on any part of the funeral arrangements. To this day, the area is an overgrown pond and impossible to reach by foot, and quite honestly meant nothing to me during her life at all. So I never really processed what happened back then, and I don’t think I have to this day. Little by little, I realise how much I miss her and wish I had part of her to feel around me and take with me. Usually, people have memorial plaques, benches, graves, etc., but I had none of that.
I was 38 and on the beach, taking a ‘mummy break.’ It had been a difficult year, and I needed time alone. I’d been back and forth to the UK, caring for my father before his death in April, and I was also taking intense exams for my PT course. During all of this, I was reunited with my grandmother after years of no contact. I had a moment. I let the waves from the Atlantic crash into my ears; I cried; I finally acknowledged: I missed my mum. I felt my head was everywhere, my heart was healing, a moment where internal chaos and noise were consuming me, the soft, warm sand on my bare feet gave me peace, calm, comfort. As I looked down at my feet walking on the beach, dipping in and out of the waves, I smiled to myself.
I was so happy and grounded, and that’s when I thought I wanted to see my mum in every step I take, especially in my happy places — like barefoot on the beach — so I would get a tattoo with her name on my foot. I chose to remember her and take her with me everywhere I walk in the future. It would be permanent, not wash away or become so overgrown that she got lost and forgotten.
The irony was that my father was covered in tattoos from his naval career, and back then, tattoos were mainly associated with criminals, sailors, and were generally looked down on. It certainly wasn’t professional to have tattoos on show, and you would be judged immediately in the workplace. I was so used to the tattoos that it never even occurred to me to want one. So why all of a sudden was it so out of character for me to even come up with this, but I was so sure this was what I wanted and needed to honour my mum and have her with me. Surely at the age I was, I would not regret this. So I took myself to the tattoo shop in Madrid on an October morning to get it. I felt this crazy sort of feeling with excitement, a relief that I had something of her, yet knowing she would not have really approved. It was as though I was acting like a cheeky, rebellious child; however, as it was something deep and meaningful to me, she would have seen the funny side.
I was so happy when I had this tattoo and got home to show my daughter, who understood exactly where I was coming from, yet also thought it was crazy I was doing this, since I have never liked tattoos. We have gone through so much together, Charlotte and I. She really loved that I was doing something like this for myself in this way, and was just happy for me to acknowledge her in a way that maybe I would not feel so alone anymore.
Then, just as I arrived home to show her, I had a phone call that my dear grandmother, Zofia, had died at the wonderful age of 96. Escaping the war from Poland with my grandfather, Tadeusz (who died when I was 11), they had 7 children, 17+ grandchildren, and at the time around 10 great-grandchildren. This was some resilient woman! We had the most beautiful bond, and I loved her so so dearly, always. Of all the days I chose to do that, it was today! Bitter-sweet indeed, and as sad as I was then, I just had to chuckle to myself as she probably would have thought the same as my mother on the tattoo front. And in case you were wondering… another one with my grandma’s name? No, I didn’t (cheeky wink).
From my own personal hardships and struggles, I have found a way to use them as a catalyst for growth and positive change. I have directly channeled my past struggles into helping others through my work and personal life. I create a community in my life so ‘no one has to feel alone’ at any time.
Being resilient is not just about ‘bouncing back’ or ‘being tough’ – I see it as an invaluable opportunity to learn and grow. In times of weakness and emotional turmoil, I have recognised that I cannot do this alone, and reaching out to others for support, collaboration, and connection has enabled me to grow and learn.
It is not about avoiding the challenges life throws at you but about learning and growing from them. I believe this is a critical skill for both individuals and businesses. We cannot do everything alone, and we all need others to help us be the best versions of ourselves at this very moment.
They say time is a great healer. While you can’t go back to what was, you can find some peace with who and where you are now. This is where it takes time, and everyone’s schedule is different. All I know and have learned the hard way is that reaching out, talking out, crying out, or however you feel is best for you will help you. Try not to handle grief in isolation. Seek out a communityand do not feel alone. After a long learning process, I realized the huge importance of connecting with others and finding a sense of belonging and support. It took me many years to understand or be ready to deal with this. I have learned a lot along the way, but now I can speak out and help.
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