Having a strong sense of who we are involves knowing where we come from. For me, this sentiment has been a key part of my cultural identity and spiritual practices — practices that started off as curiosities, then turned into healing tools. In 2011, I navigated deep grief for the first time when my paternal grandmother and uncle passed away within 66 days of each other. I felt as if my world stopped. I felt as if I was outside of my body, searching for something to steady myself. I started to seek out as many holistic practices as I could to connect with the family that I left (I had just moved to New York City for college), and mourn the family that I had lost. I even got a tattoo — “non ducor, duco,” — which translates from the Latin to “I am not led, I lead,.” It reminded me that I while I had lost my grandmother and my uncle in the physical realm, I gained them in the spiritual realm.

As we continue to navigate multiple pandemics (COVID-19, systemic racism, climate change, etc.), it makes sense that the stillness and uncertainty of the times has forced some of us to go inside of ourselves and do long-standing inner work. For me, this has looked like tending to my altar, checking in on myself, and going back to some of the same practices that helped me when I was mourning my grandmother and uncle. Some days I would journal, other days I would cry, and most days I wondered what they would think of the current state of the world.

I’m always wondering what my ancestors think of me, and if they're proud of the person that I’ve become. Right around my 30th birthday, I had a dream that startled me the moment that I woke up. I do not usually remember my dreams, but when I do, they always carry messages. Sometimes the messages appear in the form of scenarios with the cast and characters in my life, other moments feel like stepping through a time machine. Either way, when a dream is clear enough for me to remember, I type it into my Notes app and take a breath, waiting for the message to sink in.

This particular dream felt as if I was experiencing it in high-definition — I was walking on a path on the edge of a forest and felt the heat of the tropical sun on my skin. Not too far along the path, I saw a melanated jaguar approach. I was frozen, standing in place with a mix of childlike wonder and fear. When the jaguar was close enough, it paused and looked me over. Then in one movement, it stood up and embraced me in a hug. My fear was replaced with a sense of familiarity and acceptance, and before I could explore it any further, I woke up back in Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn.

Jaguars are thought of as guardians between the land of the living and the dead and are associated with magic across Indigenous nations of the Americas. They are also prominently featured on the coat of arms of Guyana.

My Guyanese heritage is the biggest unknown branch of my family tree. It has been a long-standing place of grief and trauma for me as there have been deep family conflicts and events that preceded me, yet impacted me vicariously. When building my family tree on a genealogy site, I discovered that my great-grandmother was born in Barbados and visited New York. The ease in which Black Caribbeans traveled in the 1920s, 30s, and 40s made it possible for her to be born in one place and have a child in another. But I was still left with questions. My father was last in Guyana as a toddler, and that was the last time he saw his own father. At the time of writing this, we still do not know what happened to my grandfather beyond 1962. Black Caribbean friends often share that the only way I’ll find out what happened to my ultimate paternal lineage, the Agards, is to travel to Guyana and Barbados.

With all of this in mind, I wanted to honor those ancestors who I’ve never known and embrace the mysteries surrounding them. I had been wanting a tattoo of a jaguar for quite some time, but to have this vivid of a dream as I was in the twilight of my twenties was too loud of a message from my ancestors and spiritual team to not to follow up on. I have always been drawn to big cats, grew up with domestic cats, and consider myself to be feline-like in nature. Equal parts coy and confident. Given the ancestral significance of the tattoo I had in mind, I wanted to be sure that I found someone who was on a similar wavelength. As a Black woman, it is important for me to be tattooed by other people of color, as the process is very intimate — especially when thinking of the placement, symbology, and meaning of the tattoo. After asking around, I found Jess T. Fang, who practices Chinese medicine and acupuncture in addition to tattooing.

The week I went to meet up with Jess, my father called me to check in. By the end of the call, he disclosed that he had a dream of a woman he thought to be his grandmother, recalling her silver hair, and that she kept telling him that “everything is going to be alright.” As I've become more open about my beliefs and spirituality with him, so has he. We talk almost every day, but I was surprised to learn that he receives messages in his dreams too. I took note of the messages his grandmother — my great-grandmother — shared with him, prayed about it, and shared my stories with Jess during the consultation. We set the appointment for February 2 at 2pm (in numerology, 222 carries an energy of partnership and foundations).

My birthday passes, Saturn moves into Aquarius, and a snowstorm pushes back the appointment a week. After rescheduling, I sat down and saw Jess’s drawings for the tattoo, choosing the first she had sketched. The jaguar has a gentle resting face, but her claws are still extended — she is calm but vigilant.

As the tattoo continues to heal almost two months later, I find myself more aware of what inner work still remains. It’s not enough for me to wear a symbol of something so meaningful, I have to now continue to create new stories of identity and belonging. Resting on my dominant arm, the tattoo is also there to guide me through my thoughts and feelings, and will be one of the first things that people see when they greet me. My ancestors and the ashe (energy) that they carry often introduce me before I physically enter a room — now there’s an image on my skin that echoes their greetings.

As I continue to heal, I am understanding that finding symbols of our personal power is one thing, having it inked into your skin permanently is another — but actually embodying the meanings behind what we choose to adorn ourselves with is a life-long process.

Veronica Agard is a writer and cultural organizer at the intersections of Black identity, wellness, representation, and culture. Described as both tacitial and whimsical, she is the creator behind the Ancestors in Training educational project and is a contributing editor at Your Magic. Catch her spell for connecting with your ancestors on this week’s episode of the podcast!