The Love That Always Blooms
This week, I sat down to write and came up empty. For someone who usually plans out their blog posts, that was unsettling. Life has been a whirlwind lately. A few weeks ago, I started working as an independent contractor, and it’s been nothing short of humbling. Add in the weight of trying to manage all the things, and I found myself completely overwhelmed.
Yesterday, I was reminded of something I already knew but had pushed to the back of my mind: I’m a perfectionist. That revelation hit hard, bringing my old friend anxiety right along with it. For eight years, I built a business on this polished idea of perfection, masking the anxiety that came with it.
Earlier this year, I stepped away from that business, from the work that gave me purpose and love. I thought I needed the break to find myself again, and it worked—until yesterday. As that familiar tightness in my chest returned, I realized how easy it is to fall back into old habits of striving and overachieving.
But I’ve been in therapy long enough to recognize when it’s time to pause. So I did. I stepped away, put down the need to “do,” and let myself reconnect with something that has never asked too much from me: flowers.
It’s funny how love works. The joy that comes from falling back in love with something that’s always loved you is indescribable. Priceless, even.
As I worked with flowers, memories began to bloom:
The first bouquet my dad gave me on Valentine’s Day when I was just a girl.
Watching my mom create silk floral arrangements with such care, her creativity inspiring my own.
That shy boy in college handing me a bouquet, his face as red as the roses.
The cascade of pink roses that adorned my stepmother’s casket, a bittersweet goodbye wrapped in beauty.
Flowers have been with me through every season of my life—celebrations, heartbreaks, and everything in between. Somewhere along the way, though, I fell out of love with them. Not because they failed me, but because I let perfectionism convince me that I wasn’t enough.
Yet flowers never stopped loving me. Yesterday, standing on concrete in old Crocs after hours on my feet, I found that love again. It didn’t demand anything of me. It simply reminded me of who I am: someone worthy of joy, forgiveness, and grace.
This love is therapeutic. It’s nurturing. It’s patient. Flowers love from a place that’s gentle and understanding, meeting me where I am and asking for nothing in return.
Sometimes, we need time away to truly appreciate the things that shape us. Flowers are my reminder of how far I’ve come and how much room there is still to grow.
As I write this, I’m reflecting on how beautifully imperfect this journey is. It feels like Flyy Girl by Omar Tyree, blended with the confidence of Khadijah James from Living Single and the introspection of Moesha Mitchell. Because rediscovering yourself requires a little sass, a lot of heart, and the kind of love that always blooms.