Yesterday, I sat for six hours while the buzz of a tattoo gun filled the air, marking my skin with the intricate dance of two otters. This tattoo is a tribute to my Nan, who died six years ago. She adored otters—their playful, clever nature captivated her. Sundays were often spent curled up together watching documentaries or the films Ring of Bright Water and Tarka the Otter. She would have adored National Geographic’s latest offering, Billy & Molly: An Otter Love Story. One of my clearest memories is of a family holiday to Great Yarmouth when I was about eight; we took her to The Otter Trust, and I can still picture the sheer delight on her face as she watched them, utterly mesmerised by their antics.
This tattoo seems a fitting tribute to her, but it holds even more meaning for me. Otters are also my husband’s favourite animal. If they had known each other longer, my Nan and Aaron would have bonded not only over their love for me but also for these creatures. For his 40th birthday last year, we adopted an otter called Willow at Dartmoor Otter Sanctuary, and he’s excited to visit this summer. I like to think my Nan would have loved to join us as we feed Willow and her family.
This is not my first memorial tattoo, though. It is my third, woven into the tapestry of ink that already tells my story. My first was a butterfly, inked onto my foot six months after my sister Zoey died. That winter, despite the cold, butterflies seemed to appear everywhere—as if they were following me, reminding me that she was still near. Many cultures see butterflies as symbols of the soul. In Ancient Greece, Aristotle called the butterfly psyche, the Greek word for soul. In parts of Mexico, Indigenous traditions speak of the morning star as a butterfly, carrying the spirits of the dead. Closer to home, in Ireland and Germany, it was once believed that butterflies were the souls of departed children. The pain of that tattoo was searing—bone-deep—but it felt right. A reflection of the raw grief inside me, etched permanently on my skin.
My second memorial tattoo came after an ectopic pregnancy in 2017—a time when I felt like my very soul was splintering. I chose a small heart on my wrist, arrows exploding outward from it, a symbol of unbearable pain. That little heart has brought me more comfort than I could have imagined. In the years since, whenever the grief of infertility has felt too much, I have found solace in tracing its outline, in remembering that love and loss are bound together.
Memorial tattoos have existed across cultures and centuries, offering a tangible way to carry grief. In Victorian England, tattoos were most commonly associated with convicts, particularly those sentenced to transportation to Australia. Many prisoners marked their bodies with the names or initials of lovers, family members, or friends—perhaps as a way to maintain a connection to those they were forcibly separated from. These tattoos were often placed on visible areas such as the forearms and hands, making their emotional significance clear.
Convict tattoo records reveal fascinating details about these personal markings. Names inscribed on a prisoner’s arm were more likely to belong to a person of the opposite sex, often accompanied by the initials “I.L.” (meaning “I love”). One such case was that of 21-year-old William Graham, imprisoned in Millbank Penitentiary in 1826 for grand larceny, including the theft of a handkerchief and a pair of breeches. His tattoos spoke of devotion—his right arm bore a heart with crossed arrows and the initials of his family and his probable lover, “E.C.” His left arm featured his own initials entwined with “E.C.” once more, alongside a “bird in a bush,” an image captured in a rare prison register sketch.
While specific practices of memorialising the dead through tattoo ink are less well-documented from this period, the Victorians had an intense relationship with mourning rituals. They famously crafted jewellery incorporating the hair of deceased loved ones, a deeply sentimental tradition that reflects their desire to keep the memory of the departed physically close. Tattoos, too, may have served as intimate, indelible memorials—permanent marks of love and loss on the skin.
In Japan, the art of irezumi—traditional Japanese tattooing—has a complex history. While irezumi has been associated with criminality, it has also been used as a form of personal expression and memorialisation. The intricate designs often feature mythological creatures, flowers, and other symbols imbued with deep meaning. These tattoos can serve as a means to honour and remember loved ones, embedding their memory into the skin with sacred patterns.
In Polynesian and Māori cultures, tattooing (tatau in Samoan and ta moko in Māori) has long been a way of honouring ancestors and family connections. Rather than simply decorative, these tattoos are deeply symbolic, telling the stories of lineage, status, and personal history. Ta moko is considered sacred, a direct link to one’s ancestors and a way of carrying their presence forward. The act of receiving these tattoos is a spiritual practice, marking rites of passage and transformation.
Sociologist Deborah Davidson, who has studied memorial tattoos extensively, describes them as a bond with the sacred dead:
In the modern world, memorial tattoos have become deeply personal rituals of remembrance. Psychologists have studied their impact, finding that for many, these tattoos help integrate grief—giving it a physical form, a way to acknowledge pain while carrying love forward. In a society that often urges us to ‘move on’ from loss, a tattoo says: This person mattered. They are still part of me.
For me, each of my tattoos is a spell, a sacred act of remembrance. As a Modern Wysewoman, I believe in the power of ritual, in marking transitions with intention. My tattoos are altars, etched into my skin, reminders of love that transcends time. They are grief made visible. They are legacy.
And they are forever.
