I Have a Krishna Tattoo
People sometimes ask about my Krishna tattoo. What they’re usually asking is what it means, or what I believe, or what kind of spiritual box it puts me in.
The truth is for sure messier than that.
When I got the tattoo, I was ungrounded. Not falling apart exactly, but not settled either. I wanted something to hold onto. Part of me wanted people to know I was spiritual. I won’t pretend that wasn’t there. And part of me wanted a reminder—something physical—of my relationship with Krishna, because that relationship already felt real to me, even if I didn’t fully understand it.
What first drew me in wasn’t theology or philosophy. It was the maha mantra. Hearing it, chanting it, feeling the repetition work on me without asking for clarity first. And then the stories. People telling stories of Krishna and Radha—little moments, glances, mischief, longing. Their pastimes. That kind of love.
There’s something about their transcendental love that my human heart wants deeply and also can’t quite grasp. It points to something beyond romance or attachment, but it still feels intimate and personal. I don’t know how to explain that cleanly, and I don’t really want to.
The tattoo isn’t me saying I understand Krishna. It’s not me saying I’ve arrived anywhere. If anything, it’s the opposite. It’s a mark of being drawn toward something that keeps exceeding my understanding.
I’m aware that having a Krishna tattoo can make people assume things. That I know everything there is to know. That I belong to a particular group. That I’m claiming an identity I’m supposed to defend or represent.
That’s never been what it’s about for me.
I don’t belong to one lane of devotion. I don’t feel settled enough in my knowing to claim authority over anything. The tattoo isn’t a badge. It’s not proof of certainty. It’s a reminder of relationship, and relationships aren’t static.
It sits on my lower arm, opposite my forearm. Visible, but not central. I forget it’s there a lot of the time. And then there are moments when I notice it very clearly.
I notice it most during kirtan.
When I’m chanting, or standing in the sound, or letting the names move through me, the tattoo feels less like something I chose and more like something that’s just been there, quietly keeping pace with me. Other times, days or weeks go by and I don’t think about it at all.
That feels honest too.
My relationship with Krishna has always been on and off. Close, then distant. Alive, then quiet. The tattoo hasn’t stabilized that. It hasn’t made me more consistent or more disciplined. What it’s done is mark the fact that this presence keeps returning in my life, whether I’m paying attention or not.
I didn’t get it to say “this is who I am.”
I got it to say “this keeps calling.”
And that still feels true.
