I Got A Tattoo To Honour My Late Mom
My mom and I in Vietnam when I was about two years old.
I come from a very strict Asian family. There were no parties, no sleepovers and definitely no dating. I didn’t colour my hair or jump on the grunge trend, so a tattoo was definitely out of the question.
In my early 20s, I got one. It wasn’t some grand act of rebellion; I just really wanted a tattoo. I chose a blue butterfly and placed it about four inches above my ankle, on the inside of my right leg. At the time, long skirts and dresses were in style, and I convinced myself that my parents would never see it. I don't know why I didn’t think about shorts, mini skirts or sitting cross-legged—but somehow, I still managed to keep it from them. Even decades later, when my mom lived with me for five years before her passing, she never knew.
Last December—five years after my mom’s death—I went to Vietnam for three weeks with my husband and our two daughters, both in their early 20s. It was my first time back since I left with my family when I was seven, this time as a mother, showing my family where my life began.
On the plane ride over, my youngest suggested we get a “trip tattoo” together to mark this epic milestone. I laughed at first and asked what she had in mind. She said a lotus, the national flower of Vietnam. Without really thinking, I instead suggested a “hoa mai”—the yellow apricot blossom that fills most homes in Southern Vietnam during Tết (Chinese New Year). For me, it had a deeper meaning: “Mai” was my mother’s first name and mai flowers bloom in spring, which is my Vietnamese name—Xuân. The connection felt very natural, like it was meant to happen. Within seconds, both my daughters agreed.
My eldest found a tattoo artist in Hội An (central Vietnam) whose delicate, hand-drawn style was exactly what we were looking for. She ended up paying for all three of our tattoos as a gift, which made the moment feel even more special. That was also when what we were going to do fully registered: I was about to get matching tattoos with my two adult daughters. That's not something I ever expected to say.
I knew right away I wanted to include the words “Lòng Mẹ” with my hoa mai. It’s a Vietnamese song my mother used to sing to me when I was little. When I hear it now, I’m back in Saigon, four or five years old, lying in the living room while she sings softly beside me. It’s a song about a mother’s selfless, enduring love. I used to ask my daughters to play it on the violin for her on birthdays and Mother’s Day.
The day of our appointment, we stepped into Treehg.ink, a sun-dappled, painterly sanctuary that felt more like an artist’s studio than a tattoo shop. It had walls crowded with floral paintings, vintage furniture, fresh-cut blooms on every surface and large glass doors opening onto a vast garden—exactly our vibe. The tattoo artist was quiet and soft-spoken, having moved from Hanoi, my mom’s birthplace.
I chose to place my hoa mai on the inside of my left arm, somewhere I could see it easily—I no longer had anyone to hide it from.
My youngest daughter has several tattoos—including a sun on her neck that she says represents how I'm always talking her ear off. She placed her hoa mai beneath her sun.
My eldest chose the inside of her right ankle, almost mirroring the location of my butterfly tattoo.
Honouring my mom in my motherland with my daughters felt like a full-circle moment. I wonder what my mother would have made of this. Whether she would have smiled. Or scolded me first, and smiled later.
This essay originally appeared in our Group Chat newsletter.
