A flower doesn’t ask for perfect conditions to bloom — it simply does, even if it means breaking through cracks in concrete or surviving storms no one sees.
I’ve come to understand that kind of resilience.
After my stroke, there were moments I felt buried under — not just by fear or confusion, but by the weight of not knowing who I was anymore. Aphasia made it harder to express myself, and some days I struggled to find my place in the world again.
But like the red flowers in the photo — bright, bold, alive — I found myself drawn back to life.
Not all at once.
Not easily.
But gently, persistently.
Nature has this way of reminding us that healing is not loud. It doesn’t need applause. It just… grows. Quietly. Patiently. And always in its own time.
That’s what I’ve learned to do too.
Writing became my sunlight.
Art became my soil.
And the people around me — they became the rain that kept me going.
Even when I couldn’t speak clearly, I could still feel. I could still create. I could still hope.
And with every small step forward, I discovered something I didn’t expect — a strength I never knew I had.
Now, when I look at the blooms in my garden, I don’t just see flowers.
I see stories.
I see survival.
I see reminders that no matter what we go through, there’s always a way forward.
So if you’re struggling right now — healing from something unseen, rebuilding what was lost, or just trying to make it through the day — hold on. Nature finds a way. You will too.
You are not broken.
You are becoming.
And just like nature, you are stronger than you know.