Best-friend tattoos require so much prep work, which adds to

The writer and cultural observer Jenna Wortham once reflected with quiet depth: “Best-friend tattoos require so much prep work, which adds to their legitimacy. First, a friendship must be deep enough to warrant the rite; then the perfect symbol must be found to forge the bond.” In these few words lies a truth both tender and eternal—the recognition that friendship, like love, must be proven before it can be sanctified. Wortham speaks not merely of ink and skin, but of ritual, of the ancient human longing to make visible the invisible ties that bind two souls together. Her words remind us that every true friendship carries within it the sacred weight of choice—the willingness to be marked, to say, “This bond is part of who I am.”

The meaning of this quote lies not in the act of tattooing alone, but in what it represents: the transformation of a friendship from something felt to something witnessed. The prep work Wortham describes—the time, the reflection, the shared search for the perfect symbol—is the modern echo of an ancient rite. It is not the tattoo itself that gives the friendship power, but the care and commitment behind it. To etch a mark in one’s flesh for another is to say, “Our story matters.” In a world where friendships can fade as quickly as they form, this deliberate act becomes a declaration of permanence, of loyalty beyond convenience. Wortham calls it legitimacy, but one could also call it truth—the truth of choosing to remember, forever.

The origin of such symbolism stretches deep into humanity’s oldest traditions. Across civilizations, people have marked their bodies to signify allegiance, faith, and kinship. The Maori of New Zealand inscribed their skin with intricate tattoos called moko, each line telling of ancestry, tribe, and personal virtue. Among ancient warriors, brothers-in-arms would cut their palms and press them together, letting their blood mingle as proof of brotherhood and trust. These acts were not mere gestures—they were vows made visible. In the same spirit, a best-friend tattoo carries this lineage of ritual meaning: it transforms companionship into covenant, turning affection into an eternal emblem that endures even when distance or time intervene.

There is a story, both real and allegorical, that echoes Wortham’s sentiment. In the 1960s, two young women named Sylvia and Marsha became the beating heart of the early LGBTQ+ rights movement in New York City. Their friendship, forged in hardship and courage, was one of shared struggle and fierce devotion. Though they never bore matching tattoos, their bond was itself a living mark—a symbol of resilience etched not on their skin, but upon history. Decades later, those who knew them spoke of their unity as something sacred. What they shared was the essence of what Wortham describes: a friendship deep enough to warrant the rite, one made real through sacrifice and shared purpose. The mark, whether visible or invisible, is the same—it is a testament of devotion.

Wortham’s reflection also speaks to the preparation behind such bonds. A true friendship must be tested before it can be immortalized. There must be seasons of laughter and silence, of conflict and reconciliation, before the foundation becomes strong enough to bear the mark. This “prep work,” as she calls it, is a kind of spiritual forging. Without it, the act becomes empty—a symbol without story, a gesture without gravity. In this way, Wortham reminds us that not all friendships are meant to be sealed in ink; only those that have weathered time and truth can claim that honor.

Yet her observation is not only about the act itself, but about meaning and mindfulness in the age of haste. In an era when connections can be fleeting, when digital friendship can feel both instant and hollow, the ritual of choosing a permanent symbol becomes an act of rebellion against impermanence. To find that one image that speaks for two souls is to affirm that friendship is not casual—it is sacred. It is to slow down and honor what has been built, to say, “This was not easy, but it was worth everything.”

The lesson that emerges from Wortham’s words is both ancient and timely: before marking anything upon the body—or upon the heart—ensure that it is worthy of permanence. Let friendship be tested before it is celebrated, and let every symbol carry the weight of understanding. True bonds do not demand constant proof; they earn it naturally through time, honesty, and care. Seek not the mark first, but the meaning behind it. And when you find a friend who walks beside you through shadow and light alike, cherish that bond with reverence, for such companionship is rarer than any treasure the world can offer.

So let Jenna Wortham’s reflection be remembered not merely as a commentary on tattoos, but as a meditation on commitment, loyalty, and the art of remembrance. Whether the mark is on skin, in memory, or in the soul, every true friendship deserves its symbol—a sign that says, “We were here, and we mattered to each other.” In that mark, the ancient and the modern meet: the eternal human desire to turn love into legacy, and companionship into something that time itself cannot erase.