International Women’s Month
I’ve been thinking a lot about women lately.
Not just today, not just because it’s International Women’s Month, but because life has a way of putting things into perspective when you slow down long enough to really feel it.
And recently, we lost someone who reminded me exactly what that word strength really means.
My mother-in-law.
To us, she was Mama.
She was one of those people you don’t fully understand the impact of until you sit in the silence after they’re gone. The kind of person who didn’t need attention, didn’t need recognition, but somehow held everything together without you even realizing it.
She loved unconditionally. No judgment. No ego. No expectations. Just love.
The kind of love that makes you want to be better.
She never forgot a birthday, an anniversary, never missed a chance to celebrate the people closest to her. Even on her worst days, I never saw her in a bad mood. Never heard her speak an unkind word about anyone.
I’ve met a lot of people in my life. I’ve been through a lot, seen a lot. But it’s rare to come across someone like that. Someone whose presence alone makes people feel safe.
She was that for our family.
And when I look at my daughters—how they carry themselves, how they treat people, how they show love—I see her in them.
That’s legacy.
It’s not about money, business, success.
It’s about the way you make people feel when you’re here, and what stays with them after you’re gone.
The Women Who Raised Me
My relationship with women didn’t start with clarity. It started with confusion.
I grew up in a household shaped by survival. Immigrant parents who carried trauma I didn’t understand at the time. Expectations were high. Emotions were low. Love wasn’t something you heard or even felt. It was something you had to try to interpret.
And a lot of the time, I got it wrong.
I didn’t grow up hearing “I love you.”
I didn’t grow up feeling safe expressing myself. I didn’t really feel safe at all, not even in my own home.
What I did feel was pressure. Fear. The need to be perfect.
And that does something to you as a kid.
It makes you question your worth.
It makes you question if you’re loved.
It makes you build walls before you even understand why.
For a long time, I carried that.
I carried resentment. Confusion. Anger.
But as I got older, I started to see things differently.
I started to understand what my parents went through. The kind of pain they had to bury just to survive. The kind of strength it takes to leave everything behind, lose your family, and still wake up every day to raise your own kids like nothing happened.
On my dad’s side, his entire family was lost during the Cambodian genocide.
That’s not something I grew up hearing about. They didn’t sit me down and explain it. They didn’t show that pain.
They just kept showing up.
Day after day.
As parents. As providers. As if nothing happened.
I can’t imagine carrying something like that and still functioning, still raising a family, still trying to move forward like the world didn’t collapse on you.
And my mom,she had her own set of circumstances, her own hardships as an immigrant, as a woman trying to stay alive in a world that didn’t give her much room to feel.
She wasn’t perfect. None of it was perfect.
There were moments growing up where I was scared. Where discipline went too far. Where I didn’t understand if what I was feeling was love or something else. Where I’d wonder if my own parents hated me, wondered if my mom wanted me dead.
But now, I see her differently.
Not just as my mom. But as a woman who survived things I can’t even fully comprehend.
And with everything I’m putting out into the world now, especially with my book, I want her to know this:
I see you.
I appreciate you.
I love you.
The strength you had to survive is the same strength you passed down to me.
Because whether it was intentional or not, everything I am today came from those experiences.
Everything in life is either an example of what to be, or what not to be.
And either way, it’s a lesson.
Breaking the Cycle
And that’s where everything started to change.
When I had my first daughter, Reena, everything shifted. I didn’t just become a father. I became responsible for rewriting what I thought I knew.
A new direction.
A new standard.
A new way of living.
I remember looking at her and feeling a type of fear I’d never felt before.
Not fear for myself. Fear for her.
Because I knew the world I came from.
I knew what was out there.
And I knew I had a choice to make.
I didn’t want her growing up knowing or living the life I lived.
I needed to give her a better life. I needed her to be stronger, more confident, independent—and never have to rely on anyone else to take care of her.
Especially not a man.
I’ve seen too much. Heard too many stories. Sat through too many conversations in my chair to know how that can go.
And I made a decision early on: that wasn’t going to be her story.
I wanted my daughters to be respected. Educated. Strong in who they are.
To walk into any room knowing exactly what they bring to the table.
And now, I look at Reena, making her own name in this industry.
I look at Reesa, right next to me in Vegas, learning, watching, absorbing everything.
And I know, that decision mattered.
That didn’t come from luck. That came from intention. From being present. From learning how to express love, even when it didn’t come naturally to me at first.
Because the truth is, the way I love my daughters now? It’s because I didn’t have that growing up.
The way I tell them “I love you” is because I never heard it myself. Because I need them to know what I didn’t.
People express love differently. I understand that now.
But I made a decision that I was going to express it differently.
I took everything I felt growing up—the fear, the confusion, the pressure—and I turned it into love for my own family.
That’s what breaking the cycle looks like.
The Women Who Stood By Me
Before I could become that man, before God gave me the gift of becoming a father, someone had to show me what that even looked like.
My wife was the first woman who showed me what unconditional love actually is.
We were just friends in high school.
She became my prison pen pal. She stayed in my life when I had nothing. When I got out, with no job, no direction, nothing to offer, she still showed up for me.
She took me in with her heart. She didn’t judge me. She didn’t make me prove myself. She was the first woman who made me feel loved in a way I understood.
And I didn’t take that lightly.
I wanted to prove to her that I could become the man she believed I could be. The husband she deserved. The father she saw in me before I even saw it myself.
She never made me question if I was loved.
And that changed everything.
What I didn’t realize until much later in life is that my mom showed love in her own way, too.
She was the one who pushed my dad to leave Cambodia during the war.
She helped save our family. I wouldn’t be here without her.
When I was sick, she took me to the mountains of Lourdes, France, to see the Lady of Lourdes to help save me from dying. To bless me and heal me. She showed up in ways I didn’t understand back then.
And even through the pain, the fear, the way I was raised, I still had to choose to believe she loved me.
Now I know she did. The love from my wife helped show me that. Helped me see past the pain.
Looking back, I’ve learned to turn resentment into gratitude.
Because everything I didn’t have taught me exactly what I needed to give.
Me and the girls with my mom in 2018
The Women I Work With
That mindset doesn’t stop at home. It’s the foundation of everything I do. I carry it with me into the studio, every single day.
This industry used to be male-dominated.
For a long time, women had to fight just to be in the room. Doors didn’t open easily. Opportunities weren’t handed out. They still aren’t. You have to fight for them—man or woman.
But if you look around now, you’ll see something different.
You’ll see women taking over spaces that once shut them out.
And I’m grateful to be part of that shift. Grateful that my daughters get to step into that world as artists of their own. Grateful I don’t have to worry about them in the way I would have if this was thirty years ago.
My daughters, Reena and Reesa, watching a multiple artist collab at our Las Vegas tattoo studio
A lot of my apprentices have been women.
And I don’t look at them differently. I invest in them.
Mentoring my apprentice, Bella, in Las Vegas
I push them. I believe in them. I give them the same expectations, the same opportunities, the same pressure to grow. Because I know what happens when someone is given a real chance.
They rise.
I’ve seen women come into this industry balancing motherhood, life, sacrifice—and still show up every day committed to their craft.
“The sacrifices of putting everything outside of this on pause is really hard. I had to send my dog home. I can’t always be there for my family when they call and need me in distress.
It’s rough, but it’s all to build you as an individual and as an artist. Even though it’s been rough, every moment is ten times worth it in the long run.
Every moment turns into an investment. All the hard times is what builds us so much stronger for what’s to come.” – Glo
Me and Lynn at Skin Design Tattoos Honolulu in 2018 & again at Skin Design Tattoos Las Vegas in 2026
There are so many examples I could talk about. I think about Lynn, years ago when she first started. A young mom, babies at home, trying to figure out if this path was even realistic for her. Trying to make a name for herself while barely scraping by. Something I can relate to firsthand.
She wasn’t the artist she is today when she started.
But I saw something in her. Something other people didn’t see.
I had to fight to give her a spot. I had to go against people close to me who questioned my decision, who wanted to invest in people who already had the right qualifications.
And I remember the moments where she questioned if it was worth it. The long nights. The pressure. The responsibility waiting for her at home.
And I reminded her of something I learned myself:
You’re not just doing this for you.
You’re building a life for your family.
Today, she’s an incredible artist in her own right. Winning awards at expos. Creating art on skin that blows me away. Making connections with clients that have an impact far beyond the studio walls.
That’s what belief does.
That’s strength. The kind so many women are born with. The kind society teaches them to carry with them out of necessity.
I hold on to that same perspective when I mentor.
Even recently, there have been situations in the shop—moments where it would’ve been easier to cut people off, to walk away, to not deal with the complications.
But I don’t operate like that.
Because I know what it feels like to need a second chance.
I know what it feels like when someone takes a risk on you.
So I look at the good in people. I invest in it.
Because everything I do with them, I use my daughters as the standard. They’re my example. The purpose behind every choice that I make.
How would I want someone to treat my girls?
How would I want someone to guide them if I wasn’t there?
That’s how I lead.
That’s how I mentor.
And a lot of the time, it’s women who carry that same resilience.
Balancing life. Pressure. Expectations. And still showing up. That’s strength.
I believe in second chances. In seeing the good in people, even when they can’t see it themselves.
I know what it feels like to need that.
And if I can be that for someone else—especially for the next generation of women coming into this industry—then I’m doing something right.
What Stays
When I think about all of this—my past, my daughters, the women I mentor, the life I’ve built—it all connects back to the same thing.
How you show up for people. How they show up for you.
Losing Mama reminded me of something I think we all forget sometimes.
Life is short. What stays is the impression you leave on people.
She didn’t build a brand. She didn’t build a business. She built people.
She poured love into everyone around her.
And now that she’s gone, that love is still here.
In my daughters.
In my wife.
In our family.
And in the way I try to show up for them every day.
If I can be even a fraction of the person she was, I know I’ll be doing something right.
Final Thought
International Women’s Month isn’t just about celebrating women.
It’s about recognizing the impact they’ve had on who you’ve become.
For me, that impact is everything.
From my mother,
To my wife,
To my daughters,
To the women I work with every day,
To Mama,
You’ve shaped me.
You’ve challenged me.
You’ve made me better.
And for that, I’m forever grateful.
