As I lay in the tattoo chair, I thought about the days ahead of me.
It was my 23rd birthday and my new job was set to start the next day. For the first time in my life, I had put in my two weeks at a job after accepting a dream job offer elsewhere, and I wanted to celebrate finally feeling like an adult.
My first tattoo was “NCC-1701,” the hull number on the Starship Enterprise from Star Trek. It was meant to remind me to boldly be my best self and have faith that others will be as well. Looking back now, I’m sure it was also because I desperately needed optimism in my life despite all of my personal successes. After all, this was mere weeks before the result of the 2016 Presidential Election. As the world became a surreal dystopia around me, I wanted to hold on to a utopic vision that always inspired me to strive.
So many things were changing in my life. I thought, why not get a tattoo to commemorate it all? Why not etch something permanent into me that all at once harkens to the past, grasps the present, and looks towards the future?
I was on the phone one night, catching up with my college friend. After several bouts of rescheduling, we were finally able to set aside a couple of hours to just talk. Casual small talk and gossip transitioned into raucous laughter over the pettiest of things, topped off with serious talk about politics, representation in media, and life as women of color in male-dominated industries.
“Whenever we talk, I feel like I’m in Berkeley again!” she remarked. I nodded emphatically into my phone and agreed. It felt like I was back in college again, smoking a bowl and talking about about changing the world with my best friends. Though I missed that feeling, I was at peace in knowing that I could never have that pure moment again.
Luckily for me, a lot of the great friends I’ve made from childhood to college have stayed in my life. When we meet up or talk, it’s not a painful reminder of who we once were, nor is it some desperate attempt at reclaiming a hedonistic and youthful past.
It’s a gentle stroll back in time, a warm blanket of nostalgia with a cup of self-confidence and newfound maturity. The hours I spend with friends on the phone, during a Sunday brunch, or even at the club feel surreal. I know that I’m in the present, but I feel like I’m in the past.
I know that feeling will go away soon after we part ways, but my heart is convinced that I will feel that way forever. When I don’t, I feel oddly at peace — even though I can’t grab a hold of that moment, it’s all the more special because it’s ethereal.
When my boyfriend agreed to move in with me, I was absolutely ecstatic. Finally, I thought, I could move out of my family home and onto the next stage of my young adult life! Surprisingly, my parents, both first-generation Vietnamese-Americans, were very supportive of me. However, despite being divorced and rarely talking to each other, they both gave me the same eerie warning: “Spend time with your sisters now because once you move out, it’ll never be the same.”
My sisters and I have always been close and I would do everything in my power to still spend as much time with them as possible. One year and two apartments later, I realized my parents were right. Between my working hours and their school, work, and other activities — not to mention trying to coordinate the schedules of four people of different ages and life stages — I was lucky if I got to see them once a month.
For awhile, I was guilt-ridden. I told myself that this was a part of growing up and I had to learn to live with unfair choices, but I still felt selfish in the fact that I moved out. As the oldest daughter, I felt an innate duty to be there for my sisters if they ever needed anything. I felt like I was being a bad sister by moving out.
Though the amount of time I spend with my sisters has changed, what I came to learn is that our relationship is now stronger than before. I try my best to squeeze in phone calls here and there throughout the day. My sisters would come visit me after work, even when I would get home incredibly late at night; if they had the time, then they’d come visit. I even got my youngest sister her first phone so we could all keep in contact with each other. Whenever we do spend time together, we all try our absolute best to make sure it’s the best time possible.
Because we spend less time together, we’ve all come to cherish those moments even more.
A concept that I’m still trying to wrap my mind around is how subjective time feels. Sometimes the present feels like the past, like when I’m with an old friend. Having less time often feels more precious than having more time, like when I’m with my sisters. In most moments, I want to just grab it, freeze it, and tuck away in my pocket forever. But if I could do that — freeze what has happened and somehow lengthen my time experiencing it — then perhaps it wouldn’t be as special.
Time is a never-ending journey and we are all just along for the ride. There’s no point in trying to control it. Though we have agency over some parts of our lives, we don’t have control over most. The best that we can do is be resilient and face any obstacles that might come our way in the future with as much determination as we can muster every time. After all, if we overcame them in the past, then the future should be a piece of cake.
I’m in a different tattoo shop. The tattoo artist opens up a yellow folder and pulls out a thin pile of papers held together by a paper clip. She flips through a couple, then turns the page towards me.
“Here it is!”
A sketch of a realistic black and white lotus with a geometric minimalist background graces the paper. A smile slowly spreads on my face as I try my best to take in all of the details. It’s my second tattoo.
The lotus flower is the national flower of Vietnam, where my heritage lies. Though I was born and raised in America, I get a sense of longing and nostalgia whenever I think of the motherland. I long for the past that I never had, but it weighs on me just the same.
The lotus flower is also a symbol of resilience. Every night, it closes its petals and sinks to the bottom of the waters it resides in, only to rise above water again when the sun rises. It has come to represent human struggle and the ability to overcome obstacles. Its rise and sink is like the daily struggle of staying in the present. It must rise to survive and sink to rest for another day. It’s tiring, but the lotus does it every day with beauty and strength.
In several cultures and religions, the lotus has also come to represent enlightenment. Gods and divine monks are often portrayed as sitting in a bloomed lotus flower. My interpretation of enlightenment is closely tied to Buddhism, which is the belief system my mother raised me with. As the lotus rises and sinks day after day, over time it’s resilience undoubtedly will lead to enlightenment.
We struggle, we learn, then we grow.
The lotus flower tattoo I will be getting very soon represents everything I’ve come to accept with the passing of time. Because things change and you won’t have control over everything. But the best thing to do is try our hardest to control the uncontrollable, and with everything else — let go.
“What do you think? Any changes?”
“No, it’s fine. I love it just the way it is.”
