a permanent change to a temporary home

I couldn't help it, yes, I let it get in
The helpless optimism of spring
Worn out and tired and my heart near retired
And the world bent double from weeping
And yet, the birds begin to sing
-"Daffodil" by Florence + the Machine

Today is the spring equinox, when lightness and darkness exist in equal measure. I think the same is true of me right now.

As a writer, I strive to balance honesty and transparency in a way that is simultaneously authentic and protective of my family and my work as a counselor. I'm going to attempt to do that here, now. 

I am experiencing a time of rapid change in my life these days. Personally, professionally, everywhere. Right side up is upside down. I'm drained and energized (I saw a great post a few weeks ago that said "what's it called when you crash out and lock in a the same time?"). I feel unstable and supported. I feel deep despair alongside joy and fear alongside hope.

I think it's a great time to tell you about my new tattoo.

By "new" tattoo, I mean my first tattoo. Many people in my life, and I imagine perhaps many people reading this, might be surprised to learn I recently got a tattoo. And it's not a little hidden gem, either – it's a big, beautiful piece of art on my left arm, just above my elbow, opposite of a 55-stitch scar that slices down my outer bicep.

I have always thought tattoos were beautiful, but I never imagined actually getting one. I know now this is mostly rooted in my own pathology of avoiding things that other people might not like so that I don't disappoint them if their image of me doesn't involve tattoos. And probably patriarchy.

Ten years ago this summer, I had a surgery to remove a mass from my arm that confirmed a cancer diagnosis (non-Hodgkins b-cell lymphoma, in the lymph of my skin, so technically blood cancer in my skin). Honestly, I'm always a bit hesitant to share this part of my story in detail, especially when I meet new people, because I never had to have chemotherapy or radiation. It was a best case scenario. I'm always worried people feel upset by the word "cancer" when mine is something I live with very well. I feel protective of what havoc and fear that word can wreak on others.

But, I do have a strange type of lymphoma, and before I could fully understand how manageable it is, I spent most of 2016 terrified and detached from my body. In the aftermath of that huge biopsy, I started thinking about getting tattoos on my affected arm. For a long time (at least five years), the scar was red and ropey. I hated it. I avoided wearing clothes that showed my bare arms. I hated the dent it left behind in addition to the scar. I went into the surgeon's office expecting a MOHS procedure (which usually has minimal scarring) and left with a huge and necessary wound. I felt completely out of control of my body. The last ten years has been a journey back to my own center, with jaw surgery, appendicitis, and childbirth along the way.

Anyway, the idea of tattoos was really planted a decade ago. However, I started getting serious about this one three years ago, right around this time of year. I spent six of seven weekends in early 2023 commuting from Atlanta to Memphis to be with my uncle in the remaining weeks of his life. During one of the many drives to and from my aunt and uncle's house, I listened almost exclusively to bluegrass music and Hozier in the car. The song In a Week from Hozier's first album came through my shuffle, and I began to imagine two skeletons embracing each other in a bed of flowers as I took in the pastoral fields of west Tennessee. I know I am not the first person to conjure this image in response to this song, but it held so much meaning for me as I was living in this sacred space between life and death with my uncle.

Fast forward to the fall of 2023. I'm deep in grief, and I see Hozier live for the first time. He didn't play In a Week, but his touring album was based on Dante's Inferno, and this show cemented him as my favorite artist of all time. I kept thinking if I ever got a tattoo, I think I want the skeletons in the flowers...

Next, the summer of 2024. I'm deep in grief again, this time from a missed miscarriage. I kept thinking of these lyrics from In a Week:

We'll lay here for years or for hours
Your hand in my hand, so still and discreet...
So long, we'd become the flowers...

And they'd find us in a week
When the weather gets hot
After the insects have made their claim
I'd be home with you, I'd be home with you

From what I can tell from a bit of Internet sleuthing, I think Hozier wrote this as a dark humor song about being so in love with a person that you can just lay there forever and return to the earth. For me, it holds a lot of grief and love, and it's hard to fully explain. During the liminal space of Uncle Joe's death, I felt peace when I heard these lyrics. Returning to the earth to become the flowers is a reminder that we are dust and to dust we shall return. I felt a well of sadness and peace when we buried Uncle Joe on a beautiful spring afternoon. In the miscarriage grief, when I thought about the tattoo, it started to hold a different meaning. I saw the skeletons as me and Christopher, and the flowers as our children. A bed of daises for Addison and a rose for the child and the future that could have been – the line "I'd be home with you" gave me an image of all of us together.

When I thought about the tattoo, I had less exact visual clarity of what it should look like and more of an understanding of how it felt, if that makes sense. Imagining it felt like this: The end is the beginning and the beginning is the end. All life ends in death. Death is the harbinger of life and a necessity of resurrection. Love connects it all.

In 2025, I took a class that changed my life and really got me thinking about how to live. I decided then to just get the dang tattoo, so I spent most of 2025 telling people close to me that I wanted one. I truly believe getting a tattoo has been one of the final bosses of my own personal journey of ceasing self-abandonment in addition to the return to my body, but that's another conversation for another time.

I finally decided to do it in 2026. I won't lie, big reason I waited for 2026 is because of the numerology opportunities – 26 is my favorite number. I emailed the artist I wanted to work with (side note: thee different people who don't know each other suggested the same person to me, so my tattoo artist felt like a divine appointment) on 2/6/26, and made the appointment for 2/26/26. Fourteen-year-old Mary Chase would be giggling and kicking her feet.

Again, I didn't actually have a clear image in my head of what my tattoo currently looks like. I am many things, but I am not a visual artist. That might as well be magic to me. I had a few images, but mostly memories and feelings. When I had my consultation, I shared an image of a similar concept I found online to show the artist, then proceeded to talk mostly about what I didn't like about it. My notes were simple: two skeletons (neither goofy nor scary) embracing each other, in a bed of flowers, mostly daisies with one rose, and the moon in the background with maybe a star?

Getting this tattoo was a powerful experience. I chose to change my body forever, and I didn't get that choice with my cancer scar. I chose this pain (it hurt, and anyone who tells you getting a tattoo for 3 hours on the inside of your arm doesn't hurt is lying to your face). I've had pain in my life, both past and present, that I didn't chose. I knew if I want to change my body forever and carry an image of my life, my family, my grief, my faith, and my work, it was going to hurt. Sitting in the discomfort of the tattoo was an exercise in both control and surrender, and the necessity of feeling pain.

Kurt Fagerland is incredible. He took all my ramblings and created exactly what I've felt floating around in my head for years. I cried when he showed me the stencil, which was only slightly embarrassing. He didn't know all the details I'm describing here, and I'm still in awe of how he created what I had imagined. He actually made something beyond what I imagined. For example, the moon is in a waxing crescent phase. Of all the phases of the moon (side note again: I have loved the moon my whole life. It's ancient. The same moon I see is the same moon Christ saw. I never feel more connected to God than when I'm looking at the moon.), this one is probably my favorite. It's the end of a cycle that heralds a beginning; a last glimpse of light before something new is formed in the darkness. There's also one of my freckles in the petal of a daisy, and a cluster of freckles above the moon that look like stars. If you are also interested in finally getting a tattoo you've been imagining for years, and you live in Atlanta or would be willing to take a road trip, I can't recommend Kurt enough. You can check out more of his work here and contact him here.

I began this post with lyrics from one of my favorite songs by Florence + The Machine. Right now, I can't help but feel the optimism of spring, and I'm absolutely bent double from weeping. When I look down at my arm, I see a permanent reminder to not abandon myself; to feel the pain, because the only way out of it is through it; and that endings bring beginnings. It's my memento mori. It's also really nice to symbolically carry the grief and love of my family close to my heart.

I love this tattoo. I love how it's changed my body. I love how my arm looks now. I can't wait to wear short sleeves again and talk about it when strangers stop me in the pizza parlor. And I'd absolutely get another if I ever have another idea as good as this one.

"But Mary Chase, tattoos are permanent! Will you still want that when you're old? Why do you want skeletons on your arm?!"

Yes, for two reasons:
1. Tattoos may be permanent, but I am not.
2. I will absolutely want this tattoo if I'm lucky enough to be an older adult.
3. Because I am one, and I love them. I contain multitudes.