The Hummingbird and the Heart

How Leonard Cohen's The Future inspired my tattoo, and how an afternoon at Reverse Cowgirl Tattoo became an experience that reflected so much of what the artwork represents.

Sometimes, the things we choose to carry with us have meanings that go far beyond their appearance. They become reminders of our experiences, the people we love, the things we believe in and, perhaps most importantly, who we have become.

My latest tattoo is one of those things.

A hummingbird flying across a heart, inspired by the cover artwork of Leonard Cohen's 1992 album The Future. An image I've admired for years, but one that has taken on increasingly personal significance as I've reflected on my own experiences, my involvement in the Equal Love campaign, my work in inclusion and, more recently, the writing of my book, Never Blend In.

What began as an appreciation of a piece of artwork has become something that connects several important chapters of my life.

And the experience of bringing that artwork to life, thanks to the extraordinary creativity of Ze at Reverse Cowgirl Tattoo, added another rather lovely layer of meaning.



The Future:

Finding hope in an imperfect world

I've always been drawn to Leonard Cohen's music, poetry and extraordinary ability to explore the contradictions of being human.

His work confronts some of life's most uncomfortable realities while somehow retaining a sense of beauty, compassion and hope.

Released in 1992, The Future explores a world experiencing political, social, cultural and spiritual upheaval. Its songs examine uncertainty, disillusionment, power, love and the often uncomfortable contradictions of human behaviour.

Yet, beneath its darker observations, there are moments of extraordinary tenderness.

The album's cover artwork brings together three striking symbols: a hummingbird, a heart and a pair of open handcuffs.

I've always found that combination fascinating.

I wouldn't presume to know precisely what Cohen intended each element to represent. However, for me, they speak to three fundamental human needs: love, freedom and hope.

And, perhaps more importantly, the complicated relationship between them.

We want to love and be loved. We want the freedom to live our lives authentically. And we want to believe that, even when the world feels uncertain or unwelcoming, something better remains possible.

These are themes that have followed me throughout my life and become increasingly central to my professional work.

The hummingbird:

The strength to remain ourselves

There's something rather extraordinary about hummingbirds.

Tiny, seemingly delicate creatures, they possess remarkable strength, agility and endurance. They can hover, change direction, fly backwards and, despite their size, undertake extraordinary migratory journeys.

For me, the hummingbird represents individuality, resilience, transformation and the freedom to be ourselves.

Throughout our lives, we encounter expectations about who we should be, how we should behave, what we should believe and where we supposedly belong.

Some of these expectations are communicated explicitly. Others are absorbed almost unconsciously through our families, education, communities, workplaces and wider society.

Over time, we can become remarkably skilled at adapting.

We learn which aspects of ourselves are welcomed, which attract criticism and which might be easier to conceal.

Sometimes, without even recognising what's happening, we begin presenting versions of ourselves that we believe others will find more acceptable.

But there's an important difference between adapting to our circumstances and feeling that we must fundamentally change who we are to be accepted.

The hummingbird reminds me that resilience doesn't necessarily mean becoming harder, louder or more like everyone else.

Sometimes, our greatest strength lies in preserving precisely those qualities that make us different.

And resilience isn't simply about surviving adversity. It's also about retaining our capacity for joy, appreciating beauty and remaining open to life's possibilities.

There is something wonderfully liberating about recognising that we don't have to become something else to demonstrate our worth.

The heart:

Love should never require conformity

The heart is perhaps one of our most familiar symbols.

We associate it with romantic love, affection and emotional connection. But for me, its significance extends considerably further.

It represents our fundamental human need to be seen, heard, valued and accepted.

Not for who others would prefer us to be, but for who we actually are.

This understanding has been shaped by my relationship with my husband, Richard, and our involvement in the UK's Equal Love campaign.

In December 2010, we applied for a civil marriage licence at Woolwich Register Office, knowing that our application would be refused because we were a same-sex couple.

That refusal was part of a coordinated legal challenge designed to demonstrate how the law treated couples differently depending on their sex.

We weren't asking for special treatment.

We were challenging the idea that our relationship should be recognised differently from somebody else's.

Our involvement in that campaign taught me something that continues to inform my work today.

Love, equality and acceptance aren't simply abstract ideals. They have very real consequences for people's lives.

They influence our rights, opportunities, wellbeing, relationships and ability to participate fully in society.

And although legislation is essential in establishing rights and protections, genuine inclusion requires something more.

It requires us to examine the attitudes, assumptions and everyday behaviours that determine whether people actually experience equality and belonging.

We can change laws without necessarily changing hearts.

Both matter.

And perhaps that's why this particular heart means so much to me. It represents not only the love Richard and I share, but also the belief that nobody should have to justify their identity or compromise their authenticity to be considered worthy of love.

The open handcuffs (which I chose not to include): Freedom from expectations

Although the open handcuffs featured in the original album artwork aren't part of my tattoo, they remain an important element of its inspiration.

For me, they represent liberation.

Freedom from restrictions. Freedom from expectations. Freedom from the systems and structures that prevent people from living authentically.

But there's another form of liberation that interests me just as much.

Freedom from the expectations we've internalised.

While writing Never Blend In, I've spent considerable time reflecting on the influence of social conditioning.

From an early age, we receive messages about what is considered normal, acceptable, successful, attractive or worthy of approval.

These messages can become so deeply embedded that we stop questioning them.

We may spend years trying to fit into environments that were never designed with us in mind, without fully recognising the emotional and psychological cost.

And sometimes, even when external restrictions disappear, we continue carrying the expectations we've learned to impose upon ourselves.

We become our own gatekeepers.

That, for me, is where the symbolism of the open handcuffs becomes especially powerful.

Liberation isn't simply about removing the barriers that others place in our way.

It's also about recognising and challenging the barriers we've come to accept within ourselves.

It's about giving ourselves permission to be who we are.

Never Blend In: The freedom to belong

One of the most rewarding aspects of writing Never Blend In has been discovering just how much we share, even when our lives, identities, backgrounds and circumstances appear extraordinarily different.

Through conversations, personal reflections and the stories shared by contributors, I've repeatedly encountered familiar themes.

The desire to belong. The pressure to conform. The fear of rejection. The courage required to challenge expectations.

And, importantly, the extraordinary sense of liberation that can come from recognising that we were never required to become somebody else in the first place.

These experiences have reinforced something I believe passionately.

Genuine belonging doesn't require us to become more like everyone else. It gives us the freedom to become more fully ourselves.

This is where the symbolism of my tattoo feels particularly relevant.

The hummingbird represents individuality, resilience and freedom.

The heart represents love, compassion and acceptance.

Together, they remind me that these things shouldn't exist independently of one another.

Love should create the conditions in which individuality can flourish.

Belonging should provide the security that allows us to explore who we are, rather than restricting us to who others expect us to become.

And inclusion should never be confused with simply inviting people into existing environments while expecting them to leave important parts of themselves outside.

Our responsibility is to create environments in which people can participate, contribute and thrive without feeling that their differences are something to conceal.

This applies just as much to our workplaces and communities as it does to our personal relationships.

Finding beauty in our imperfections

One of my favourite connections to Cohen's work comes from Anthem, a song on The Future.

Its message about imperfection, vulnerability and the possibility of hope has always resonated with me.

We spend so much of our lives attempting to conceal our perceived imperfections.

We worry about being different, making mistakes, showing vulnerability or revealing aspects of ourselves that others might judge.

Yet these are frequently the very experiences that allow us to recognise our shared humanity.

Our differences don't diminish our worth.

Our vulnerabilities don't automatically undermine our strength.

And our experiences of adversity don't have to define the limits of what's possible for us.

Some of our most meaningful connections emerge when we stop pretending to be something we're not.

That doesn't mean romanticising hardship or suggesting that discrimination somehow makes us stronger.

Nobody should have to experience exclusion to discover their worth.

Rather, it's about recognising our capacity to find connection, compassion and hope, even when circumstances have been difficult.

Perhaps the imperfections we spend so much time attempting to conceal are part of what makes us beautifully human.

Listen to the hummingbird

There's one final connection to Cohen's work that makes this tattoo particularly meaningful.

Towards the end of his life, Cohen wrote Listen to the Hummingbird, subsequently released on his posthumous album Thanks for the Dance.

In it, he invites us to listen to the hummingbird rather than to him.

I find something wonderfully thought-provoking about that sentiment.

Here was an extraordinary poet and songwriter whose words had influenced generations, directing our attention away from himself and towards something in the natural world.

For me, it suggests the importance of curiosity, humility and recognising that wisdom doesn't always come from the loudest or most authoritative voices.

Sometimes, we need to pay attention to the things we've overlooked.

That idea has particular relevance to inclusion.

How often do we assume that we understand somebody else's experiences without really listening?

How frequently do our assumptions prevent us from recognising the extraordinary individuality of the people around us?

And how much might we learn if we approached difference with greater curiosity rather than judgement?

Perhaps listening to the hummingbird is also about learning to listen to ourselves.

Recognising our own needs, questioning the expectations we've inherited and discovering what genuinely gives our lives meaning.

And that brings me to the experience of creating the tattoo itself.