Some tattoos arrive in our lives like tiny declarations of who we are.
Others arrive like scars.
And then there are the ones we never wanted at all.
I carry all three.
Most people don’t know that breast cancer comes with tattoos. Not the beautiful kind. Not the kind you choose. Just three small dots, permanent marks placed on your skin during radiation. They are used to line up the machines that will save your life.
I received mine in September of 2021, during radiation, a month when everything felt fragile, surreal, and unbearably heavy. They may look small and clinical, but they are anything but emotionless.
Those dots hold grief, fear, and the memory of lying perfectly still while strangers aimed beams of light at the place where your life had cracked open.
I know exactly where they are.
And they tell a story I never asked to live.
Those dots were the first tattoos that did not feel like art. They felt like punctuation marks in a chapter I did not want to write. And yet, they changed the way I understand every tattoo I have chosen since.
Because even unwanted marks become part of the stained glass window of who we are, the darker pieces that make the light possible.
The Tattoos That Came Before and After Cancer
Long before cancer carved its way into my story, tattoos were joy for me, a way to mark time, meaning, and connection.
• My first tattoo, in my thirties, was independence inked into skin, a quiet declaration that this body was mine.
• My second, done with my sisters, honored their battles. Olivia had faced non-Hodgkin lymphoma, and Linda had and continued to face breast cancer. I did not know then that I was walking toward my own diagnosis. I only knew I wanted to stand with them, inked in solidarity.
Those tattoos were chosen. Celebrations, connections, memories.
Then came the radiation dots, the ones I never wanted, the ones that changed everything.
And after that, slowly, came the tattoos that helped me reclaim myself.
Aurora, the Tattoo That Helped Me Reclaim My Skin
After treatment, I needed something that felt like mine again, something that was not clinical or cold or tied to fear, something that reminded me that my body is not just a place where cancer happened, it is a place where I live.
On June 12, 2024, in Portland, Oregon, I sat in Angel Rose’s chair and watched a woman emerge on my left upper arm. In the photo I shared, she sits there still, eyes closed, serene, powerful, her hands gently folded as if holding a truth only she knows. Her hair flows like a current, her presence both soft and unshakeable.
I named her Aurora, after the Roman goddess of the dawn.
Because dawn is not just a beginning, it is a return, a reminder that light comes back even after the longest night.
Aurora became more than ink. She became a piece of my stained glass journey, a luminous shard placed right where the cracks once felt deepest. She is the embodiment of the moment I reclaimed my skin, my story, my breath.
She reminds me that I am still here, still rising, still choosing beauty.
The Tattoos That Came Next
My story with ink is not finished. In many ways, it feels like it is just beginning again.
My Nashville tattoo, done with my sister Linda, was pure joy. A moment suspended in time. My nieces, Dena and Kayla, joined us too. Their tiny tequila shot-glass tattoos were playful, mischievous, and perfectly them. It was one of those rare days when life feels light, when laughter comes easily, when you do not yet know how much you will cling to that memory later.
During my most recent trip to Sedona, a women’s getaway hosted each year by the Gloria Gemma Foundation, I received another tattoo. This was my third time returning to that red rock sanctuary, a place that has become a well of peace, connection, and tranquility for me. This year, my sister Linda was by my side again, and my best friend Kristen joined us on the retreat.
Linda and I had already shared our vision with the artist before the trip, opening our hearts and our stories to her. She took the spiritual, symbolic elements we loved and created a design that felt like a reflection of our intertwined journeys, shaped by everything we have carried and everything we continue to rise through.
This Sedona tattoo is not about matching scars or pretending our stories are the same. It is a symbol of sisterhood, resilience, and the strength it takes to keep moving forward, each in our own way, yet always side by side.
And it is now another piece of glass in my mosaic.
Learning to Hold All of It
I still do not love the radiation dots. I probably never will. They are not beautiful. They are not symbolic in the artistic sense. They are reminders of a chapter I did not choose.
But here is what I have learned:
• Not all tattoos are chosen, but all of them shape us.
•The dots remind me of what I endured.
•Aurora reminds me of who I became.
•The tattoos I share with Olivia and Linda remind me of our intertwined strength.
•The tattoo I’ll soon share with my daughter, Cassandra, features anemone flowers, which symbolize protection and delicate resilience. These flowers remind me of the love that guided me through life.
•And the ones still to come remind me that my story is still unfolding.
Some tattoos mark survival.
Some mark joy.
Some mark a connection.
And some, even the ones we never wanted, become the dark edges that make the dawn glow brighter. Because every mark, chosen or not, becomes part of the stained glass window I call my life.
And Aurora, with her quiet strength and luminous presence, is the piece that reminds me that dawn always returns.
For my sister Linda, whose strength is a color all its own in the stained glass of my life. Your courage, your light, and your love shape every piece of who I am.
