My tattoo, which I got in 2021, covers most of my left forearm. The Koru designs, entwined with a lotus flower, honour my family — both those I have lost and those who remain — my homeland, New Zealand, and the importance of Māori culture in the life I was raised in.
Koru – the Māori word for loop – refers to the delicate, coiled shoots of the silver fern (piko). Its spiral curves inward toward the centre, a shape that speaks of returning to our beginnings. As it unfurls, the koru carries meaning: new life, hope, growth, purity, nurturing, peace. For me, it’s a symbol of starting again, and of the quiet courage it takes to do so.
My tattoo combines the koru with a lotus flower, symbolizing purity, enlightenment, rebirth, and resilience. Together, they capture exactly what I needed after the deaths of my parents and my brother — a reminder etched into my skin that life can grow again, even after loss.
If you believe in signs like I do, you’ll understand why this tattoo takes up most of my left forearm.
Before this, I’d only ever had one tattoo. I was seventeen, naïve, and a bit rebellious. My best friend Natalie and I both chose an angel — mine tucked discreetly on my left hip, where my parents wouldn’t find it; hers proudly on the top of her foot. (Her parents have always felt like second parents to me.) It took nearly ten years before my own parents discovered mine.
I grew up in New Zealand and am the daughter of English parents. They were post-war children, shaped by scarcity and change, who crossed the world for a different life. New Zealand became their home with its wild coastlines, open skies, and the deep heritage of Māori culture. They raised my brother and me in Paraparaumu, a small town 40 minutes north of Wellington on the Kāpiti Coast, where the salt air and beaches shaped my earliest memories.
At twenty-nine, I moved to the United Kingdom. But anyone from New Zealand will tell you: no matter how far you travel, your heart stays tied to its shores. There’s a patriotism in our bones, an unshakable pull toward our whenua — the land — and its people.
In May 2021, I flew back to New Zealand to finally give my dad the farewell he never had. He had died on Christmas Eve 2019, just three weeks after I’d had major foot surgery, which made flying impossible. By the time I was ready, COVID had shut borders. My grief sat in limbo, caught between paperwork for probate in Spain, where I now lived, and the painful knowledge that my father’s ashes had been waiting in a funeral home all that time.
I was the last of my immediate family. I had lost my brother in 2017, when he was just 47. There were no siblings to share the weight, and no one was waiting for me when I landed.
I stayed in New Zealand for six weeks, though the first two were spent in Managed Isolation, thanks to strict COVID rules. I was lucky even to get a spot — another sign, perhaps, that the timing was finally right. Those two weeks gave me quiet space to write my dad’s eulogy. It was so different from when Mum died in 2014, when my brother, dad, and I sat together, sharing stories, finding photos, choosing music, and writing her farewell as a family. This time, it was just me.
The trip was filled with grief, goodbyes, and the need for closure — but it was also about connection and reconnection. I still had many friends in my hometown, and their presence anchored me. Some I had known since the age of four. Being with them was medicine: laughter, memories, tears. It reminded me that even in profound loss, joy can still exist.
During those weeks in New Zealand, the idea of my tattoo kept growing. I’d even visited a tattoo artist in Wellington, but the design just didn’t feel right. I knew I couldn’t force it — it had to mean something.
Then, just days before Dad’s funeral, I caught up with Michelle, an old school friend I’d known since we were little. Michelle is a true creative and owns her own jewellery business, Awa Designs.
I had seen Michelle in 2019 on another trip to New Zealand. She had helped me then by taking some of Dad’s furniture when I had to move him into palliative care. And she had just moved to Tauranga, where Dad was living — like it was meant to be. It wasn’t just any furniture to me — it was a table made of natural New Zealand wood, rimu. A table where my parents shared meals, and where my dad spent countless hours writing journals, to-do lists, and working on his laptop. Handing it to Michelle felt right. I knew it was in good hands.
I had told Michelle that on this trip, I wanted to get a tattoo to honour my family, something with Māori roots. She immediately suggested Tim Hunt, a Pacific tattoo specialist in Ōtaki on the Kāpiti Coast.
That connection turned out to be bigger than I realised. Michelle and I had grown up together, but reconnecting then was different — we both carried the scars of losing our parents and our brothers. It gave us a bond that few others could really understand.
The synchronicity went even further. Michelle told me it was Tim’s father who had shown her kindness when her brother died. And Tim’s studio? It was in Ōtaki — the town where my grandparents had settled after they followed my dad to New Zealand. Ōtaki was tied to so many of my own memories. It honestly felt like I was being led there.
On the day of my tattoo, Michelle came with me. I was so grateful for her — not only as a distraction from the pain but also for the laughs, the memories, and the comfort of her company. She made the whole experience lighter, even fun. It felt like the day, the tattoo, the whole journey had unfolded exactly as it was meant to.
The design I’d been holding in my mind came alive under Tim’s hand. He explained why he felt it would be bigger than I had originally intended, running nearly the full length of my forearm — to flow with the natural line of my arm, to be soft rather than bold, something that fit me rather than overwhelmed me. And he was right. To this day, people sometimes don’t notice I have a tattoo until I point it out, because of how gentle it looks. That’s what makes it so special: it belongs to me, not just on me.
Each koru in the piece represents someone I love: my parents, my brother, my husband, and my two children. Together, they unfurl across my arm, carrying both the family I’ve lost and the family I still hold close. A story written in skin — one I’ll carry for life.
I proudly carried my tattoo back to Spain, returning to my children and my husband, Ali. Whenever someone noticed it and asked about its meaning, I felt a quiet pride in sharing the story behind it — a story of love, loss, and resilience etched into my skin. My children, only three and five at the time, looked at it with wide-eyed curiosity. “Mummy, does it come off?” they asked, their innocence making me smile.
I will forever carry this symbol of meaning and strength. It reminds me of how resilient I am. Not only that, but it also takes me back to a happy childhood, wonderful parents, and the love I have for my brother. It ties me to the land where I was raised, and where my family now rests.
Loss changed me, but it did not end me. My tattoo tells the story: grief, love, and the strength to keep unfurling, one koru at a time.
Resilience is a sign of endurance — it’s the experience of facing multiple challenges in life and coming out the other side still standing, stronger, wiser, and more empathetic.
The path to resilience isn’t just hard — it’s about endurance, grit, and determination. One day, the challenges, losses, and pain you’ve faced will be seen as strength, wisdom, and a chance to inspire others through your journey.
Are you ready to share your story of RESILIENCE? You can do that HERE.