Laura Jade

Category: Uncategorized

  • Why

    Being called “sister” as an only child felt so strange. Yet there I was, surrounded by a loving circle of sweet, smiling faces calling me sister. Why was I so determined to come here, alone, at 18? I guess it was a combination of blind confidence and an unyielding desire to feel authentic in my life.

    The previous two summers, I had spent almost every weekend doing henna. My mom and I had taken an interest in the art after I got a henna tattoo on my 16th birthday, and we fell in love with the semi-permanent adornment. We bought simple henna kits and hoped we’d be good enough to start a business. We had some natural talent.

    We got an LLC and maxed out a credit card for supplies: an outdoor carpet, an EZ-up tent, a few tapestries, plenty of pillows, and a massive order of pure lavender oil and Jamila henna powder, freshly ground from that year’s harvest in Pakistan. You wouldn’t believe the smell.

    Late nights with the brown-stained plastic spatula, filling dozens of hand-rolled cellophane cones with warm henna paste fresh from the oven. Sleepy mornings setting up our booth at whatever market or event awaited us. We had the routine down: roll out the carpet, pin up the tapestries, throw the pillows on the ground, wipe the sticky design book pages clean. Ready to be ravaged by all …blissed-out festival-goers, glittery children, bohemian moms, sunburnt dudes spilling beers on our portfolios… (“Y’all do real tats?”)

    We had varying degrees of success. My mom relied on it as a source of income, so her mood depended on how much money we brought home after each event. I was 16 and free of bills that first summer, so the money was just fun…enough to treat my friends and me to Frappuccinos or Thai food.

    But I was also feeling a growing discomfort that I now know is called Imposter Syndrome. I didn’t deserve the fun, the money, or the endless gushy compliments about my designs… which were really just bad ripoffs of a beautiful and ancient art from a culture not my own. I secretly started dreaming of going to India someday.

    I delved into websites, travel shows, and anything I could find about India and its culture. I ordered real Mehndi books from eBay, shipped directly from India. I read them like a novel, studying the patterns and how they fit together. I copied every design by sight, repeating leaf after leaf, swirl after swirl… downloading my new vocabulary into hand and mind.

    The following summer, it was on. I knew I needed about $1,800 for a round-trip ticket to India, plus whatever else I could save to live off. The weekends were long, but the joy I felt counting stacks of glittery $5 bills out of my apron pocket was addictive. Rubber-banding stacks of $50 to take to the bank on Monday… fingertips stained brown, smelling of lavender.

    Of course, my teenage fantasy of India was quite different from reality. Once those rainbow-sparked dollars turned into a single white paper with a flight route and seat number, it got real. Really real after the goodbyes, when it was just me and the hum of the jet.

    On January 16th, 2008, I flew to Trivandrum, at the very southern tip of India in the Tamil Nadu region. I remember the sweet taxi driver Pandi, who offered to make a quick stop so I could check out the Arabian Sea. I was too excited to be aware of any danger and agreed enthusiastically. Twilight bathed the beach, and kids played volleyball in the red sand. Pandi offered to take photos, smiling at everything I said. Later, he would rescue me in the middle of the night from a deviant Dr. Lady who had taken me hostage… but that story is for another day….

    By some cosmic lining up of circumstances, I found myself staying at the Avvai Ashram children’s orphanage. I met a girl named Michelle at the airport, a piercer from Arizona volunteering there. She offered me a place to stay, and I gratefully accepted, relieved to have a friend and a safe spot. I was given food and shelter in exchange for helping the kids with English and daily chores.

    The Ashram was surrounded by dirt paths, rice paddies, baby peacocks, and the occasional rickshaw from the nearest village. It was remote …no refrigeration, no cell service, no internet. I spent my days braiding coconut oil into girls’ hair, playing games, doing homework, and helping prepare food. They all called me “sister,” and we ate idli with coconut chutney and sambal daily. I daydreamed about cold water.

    I spent two months there. Though grateful and truly cherishing my time, homesickness became unbearable. I was on the other side of the world and couldn’t contact my family. I decided to go home halfway through my intended stay … a hard choice. I had come to experience Mehndi firsthand and immerse myself in the art, but instead, I spent eight weeks in an orphanage, exhausted, and not feeling well. I stressed my parents and hadn’t yet found the route to Mehndi mastery I’d naively hoped for.

    The night before my flight home, the orphanage arranged a farewell celebration. We dressed in saris, shared a feast, and the kids performed dances. It felt too painful to leave but impossible to stay.

    A group of girls ushered Michelle and me to the upstairs sitting area with a big bucket of leaves and water. They started pounding and grinding the leaves by hand …and then it hit me. They were making Mehndi paste. The leaves had come from the bush outside my room; it had been there the whole time. Laughing and joyful, they grabbed our hands, applying simple circles to our palms, sharing happiness in the moment, braiding hair, and singing with joy.

    After the food, dancing, and photos, Michelle and I spent the rest of the night talking while I packed. I hadn’t told her I was a henna artist back home, but finally I showed her my portfolio and explained how unbelievable this experience had been.

    She was a rockabilly girl with black hair, straight-across bangs, rolled-up jeans, and tons of piercings. Wide-eyed and amazed, she said,

    “You should absolutely be a tattoo artist! I work in a shop in Arizona, and it’s seriously the best job ever.”

  • Shift

    Lately I’ve been focusing on reducing stress and dismantling unhelpful thinking habits. I want to be free from them. It’s become a constant practice: noticing which thoughts don’t feel good and intentionally shifting them toward something that does.

    In my relationship with tattooing, I’ve been finding new ways of thinking that bring me more peace than I’ve ever felt. For the first time, I’ve been able to release the pressure I put on myself to stand out and be exceptional on my own.

    For years, I lived in my head. Competing with myself, criticizing myself, comparing myself, trying to showcase myself. But it feels so much better to imagine being part of something bigger. Tattooing is vast and ever-expanding, always changing, always evolving. What a privilege it is to be part of it.

    I used to strive to be exceptional ,not only for my own satisfaction, but to impress others. I wanted so badly to be great. My focus was narrow, and I felt like the world around me was keeping me from doing my best. I thought I needed everything to line up perfectly: the right client, the right music, the right temperature, the right social media reception. I pushed myself to make every tattoo better than the last.

    But most of those conditions were out of my control. And holding on to them only pulled me toward burnout. I became reactive, and that’s what I’m working to break free from.

    The truth is, being an artist does require a degree of self-absorption. That inward focus is what fuels authenticity and innovation. But there’s a danger in getting stuck there it can lead to poor communication, isolation, and missed opportunities. I’m learning the key is balance. We have to draw from our inner world, but stay open to outside influences without letting them suffocate our creativity or joy.

    A client asked me recently why we’re making this journal. Their question made me realize just how much I’ve shifted during this process. My focus has zoomed way out.

    I don’t see tattooing as “me” anymore. I see it as a collective everyone who came before us, those here now, and those still to come. I’m less concerned with proving myself, and more curious about learning from others. Tattooing is so much bigger than one artist’s ego. It’s an incredible, diverse sphere, filled with cultures, practices, and histories far deeper than I ever realized.

    There was a time when I thought tattooing had become trivial, oversaturated, and stripped of the symbolism I loved. But now I see my own work as just one small speck in tattooing’s much larger story. There is so much wisdom to learn, practice, and carry forward.

    I’m settling into a new period of growth. I’m studying the fundamentals more slowly and thoroughly. I don’t feel the need to grab knowledge just to force a finished product to show or sell. My goal now is to enjoy every moment of this creative life and to give back to tattooing, for tattooing’s sake, not just for myself.

    We don’t have to carry tattooing alone, it belongs to all of us. To any artist caught in the cycle of comparison or burnout: you’re not alone, and it is possible to find joy again.

  • First Tattoo

    The receptionist had wild, uncombed hair, thick eyebrows, and a contagious smile that revealed nearly all her teeth at once. I’ll never forget how warm and welcome she made me feel.

    Coiled calmly around her neck and shoulders like an elaborate necklace was a snake, an actual, living snake, a gorgeous yellow Burmese python. I love snakes, having been born in the Year of the Snake. The python shifted a golden eye toward me, serenely acknowledging my presence.

    She wore slouchy, traditional Thai-style fisherman pants in the brightest, fiery orange, paired with a tiny black tube top stretched snugly over her petite frame. Her arms were adorned with bold, swirling bands of black ink, and glittery gold bangles were stacked high on her tattooed forearms. She was, without a doubt, the coolest person I had ever seen.

    The shop was called “Pumpkin Tattoo Studio” the first tattoo shop I had ever stepped foot in.

    Unfortunately, my appearance at the time didn’t exactly match the dazzling aesthetic of the shop or its striking receptionist. I stood awkwardly at the counter, my box-dyed brown bangs glued to my forehead with sweat. Beads of perspiration gathered on my upper lip as I scrambled to think of something to say.

    After 30 days of backpacking through Thailand, the relentless humidity and spicy food had left me perpetually pink, salty, and sticky.

    The studio was decorated to the max in a quirky, Southeast Asian take on Halloween. Garlands of plastic bats and fake, bloody eyeballs swayed above me, while small fans struggled valiantly and unsuccessfully to create a cool breeze. The air was thick with incense and a unique scent I couldn’t place at first a clean, slightly floral, medicinal aroma I would later come to know as green soap. That iconic combination of green soap and incense would forever become the smell of home for me, and this was the first time I’d experienced it.

    The sporadic buzzing of tattoo machines rattled from the other room, blending with fast conversations in Thai, bursts of laughter, and the hum of TV static.

    My Mom and I had stumbled upon this magical place by accident while navigating the famous Khaosan Road during the last few days of our trip, gathering last-minute souvenirs before our flight home to Oregon. What a wild place it was! Khaosan road had all the vibrancy and color that my small, gray, coastal hometown lacked—a highly stimulating tourist mecca where anything and everything could be ingested, experienced, or purchased at any time of day, all at once. It was pure chaos. It was my Disneyland.

    I was 16 years old, and the moment I walked into the shop, it was as if I had metaphorically jumped out of an airplane. I was completely captivated enchanted, even by the sounds, the smells, and the sheer energy of the environment. I was definitely getting my first tattoo. The first of many, many tattoos, I had decided. 

    “How can I help you?” the receptionist asked with a thick Thai accent, her big smile urging me forward.