The Trickster Within

By: Elizabeth Marshall

I have a tattoo of a coyote on my back. I often forget it’s there—except when my kids make fun of it or when I briefly consider having it removed. But for the past 30 years, this inked trickster has stubbornly remained, and oddly enough, its meaning has only deepened over time.

Last year, a friend gifted me a session with an intuitive named Ronnie. Now, I’m not exactly a believer in psychics or anything that sounds like it belongs in a carnival tent, but my friend—who's even more skeptical than I am—insisted I give it a shot. She explained that intuitives rely on gut feelings rather than logic, which frankly sounded like a scam. But hey, the session was paid for, and I’m always up for something new.

When I sat down with Ronnie, I decided to play it cool. No revealing facial expressions, no leading answers—just a silent challenge: Alright, lady, impress me. She started our session, then suddenly stopped.

"You know," she said, narrowing her eyes, "I keep hearing a word over and over: Trickster. Does that mean anything to you?"

I nearly fell out of my chair.

In 30 years, no one had ever used that word around me. But just a week prior, I’d been reflecting on the very idea of the trickster and the lessons it had taught me.

At 20, I was basically Wile E. Coyote—chasing after people, places, and things that I thought would fill some deep hole of fear, resentment, or general dissatisfaction in my soul. And much like Wile E., I had the metaphorical anvil dropped on me more than once. Whether from past relationships, family dynamics, or just my own blind spots, I took some pretty solid hits.

One morning, after waving my internal flag of defeat, I wandered into an artist’s gallery in Cleveland. The artist, Maria, specialized in Native American ceremonial pieces. As we talked, she studied me and said, “You have strong coyote medicine.”

I had no idea what she meant, so she explained that the coyote is the trickster—not a deceiver of others, but of itself. A creature that learns through missteps. Then, as if the universe was really doubling down on the message, she offered me a summer job helping bead ceremonial art.

That summer changed everything. Hours of beading, endless cups of tea, and deep conversations about the medicine wheel gave me insight into the trickster archetype. It wasn’t about being doomed to mistakes—it was about learning from them. At the end of the summer, I decided to keep the trickster close, a permanent reminder to stay aware of my own blind spots. So I got the tattoo.

Reflecting on it, perhaps I should have placed it on my hand instead—somewhere I’d notice it every day. Now, at 50, after enduring a tumultuous marriage and other challenges, I sometimes question if I’ve truly moved past my trickster nature. So when Ronnie kept repeating the word trickster, I prepared myself. Was she about to tell me I was destined to endlessly pursue metaphorical Road Runners? That despite therapy, effort, and careful actions, I remained my own greatest saboteur?

But then she said something that floored me.

“I want you to know the trickster isn’t what you think. It’s not out to get you—it’s been the catalyst for the person you’ve become.”

And just like that, something clicked.

She was correct. Each mistake, each heartbreak, and every painful lesson had molded me—not into someone bitter or shattered, but into a person who is wiser, more empathetic, and firmer in her boundaries. The trickster wasn’t a curse; it was a teacher.

The truth is, we all have a bit of Wile E. Coyote in us—sabotaging ourselves in ways we don’t always see. Maybe it’s our attachment styles, old fears, unresolved trauma, or just plain stubbornness. But the trick isn’t to outrun the trickster; it’s to learn from it. To recognize when we’re setting the same traps for ourselves and to adjust before the anvil falls.

The coyote was never out to get me—or you. It’s here to remind us to stay aware, to shine a light on the parts of ourselves that still need healing, and to push us toward becoming the best version of who we’re meant to be.