In the summer of 2012, my adventurous uncle made the bold decision to take me and my two eldest children, ages 12 and 10, on an unforgettable journey to Australia. Our primary mission? To fully immerse ourselves in the electric atmosphere of Australian Football League (AFL) games. Over the course of 14 exhilarating days in Melbourne, we found ourselves swept up in the energy of several St. Kilda matches—cheering, celebrating, and basking in the camaraderie of devoted fans. The trip wasn’t just about the game; it was about the passion, the culture, and the thrill of experiencing something entirely new. To top it off, we spent two vibrant days exploring Sydney, marveling at its iconic harbor views and soaking in its lively spirit.
During my time in Melbourne, a spark of inspiration struck: why not get a tattoo? As a mother of boys and navigating life with a partner who was… let’s say, challenging, I had a knack for losing, breaking, or having my belongings mysteriously disappear. The idea of a tattoo—a permanent keepsake immune to loss or theft—felt like the ultimate life hack.
I stepped into a buzzing little tattoo shop in St. Kilda, excitedly explaining my predicament to the artist. “Everything I own gets stolen or destroyed—why not turn this spot on my back into a refrigerator magnet?” I joked, pointing to the area. He laughed, nodded, and got to work. What I envisioned was a beautiful butterfly, something vibrant and full of life. What I got was that and an added surprise: the artist, fully embracing my words, elegantly inked “Melbourne” above the butterfly in sweeping script.
It was perfect. A piece of my adventure etched onto my skin, a tangible memory that could never be taken away.
Or so I thought.
The moment I landed back in the U.S. at LAX, buzzing with post-trip euphoria, reality threw a curveball: my luggage—packed with carefully chosen souvenirs and memories—had vanished. Just gone. But even in that moment of loss, I found myself grinning. Because no matter what, the universe couldn’t steal this souvenir. My tattoo, my permanent memento, was safe. Take that, universe!
Fast forward to 2021, and life, in its infinite unpredictability, had one more surprise in store. Nine years after my triumphant return from Australia, I was diagnosed with a tumor growing on my spinal cord. The news hit like a plot twist I never saw coming. The only way to remove it? A major surgery requiring an incision right through my Melbourne butterfly tattoo.
Touché, universe.
Two years, ten screws, and two metal rods later—literally holding my head on straight—I finally found the courage to reclaim my tattoo. While my heart longed to return to Australia for the restoration, logistics had other plans. So, I sought out a local artist willing to take on the challenge of reviving what was left.
The jagged scar cutting through “Melbourne” made it clear: the original design couldn’t be salvaged. When the artist asked what I wanted, I proposed a small but meaningful change—turning the ‘o’ in Melbourne into a heart. A symbol of love. Of resilience. Of survival.
As the needle hummed and the ink took shape, I felt a sense of closure wash over me. This wasn’t just about fixing a tattoo. It was about reclaiming a piece of my story—one that had evolved in ways I never anticipated.
The butterfly on my back will never look the same, but neither will I. Once, it was a symbol of adventure, of youthful spontaneity. Now, it carries the weight of survival, of transformation, of embracing the unpredictable chaos that life throws our way.
I once believed a tattoo could freeze a memory in time, a cheat code for permanence. But life doesn’t work that way. Things break. Plans change. What truly matters is how we piece together the fragments. And sometimes, the things that endure aren’t the ones that stay the same—they’re the ones that adapt, scars and all.
