My vision was simple—to share the beauty of homegrown flowers with my community while nurturing my own third of an acre in Fort Worth. This dream, born from cabin fever, blossomed into my creative escape. Before the world slowed down, I spent much of my time traveling as a commercial photographer. I enjoyed the beauty that could be found anywhere outside of Texas like cacao trees in Hawaii, tulip fields in the Netherlands, and rare cacti in Palm Springs. My adventures resulted in a graveyard of failed houseplants - even the supposedly "low-maintenance" ones.
But then I became a mother and the world came to a halt. Those first few months, my free time was focused on cooking like many others. This soon led me to my local farmers market for outdoor grocery shopping. Down the rabbit hole, I persuaded my husband to build a garden. We started with a U-shaped bed with 54 square feet of growing space. Together, we devoured books, ordered seeds and grow lights, and built a tiny oasis. The wheelbarrow from my husband’s childhood was claimed by my toddler. We planted nasturtium and zinnias to attract pollinators and before we could blink, we ran out of ways to cook or even give away zucchini.
The next spring we stole nearly 400 more square feet from our backyard lawn to build market garden-style rows. The more we grew, the more my flowers eclipsed the vegetables. We ran out of room for squash vines and were soon up to about 800 square feet of garden space in our urban plot. Our garden started as a side project, a quiet rebellion against the monotony of lockdown life, evolved from our favorite dinner table conversation into daydreams of something more. Every spare moment was spent in the garden and I found joy in photography again as my son grew alongside the plants. And while I would likely never produce enough flowers for a large celebration, I could make a darn good tablescape for a Sunday supper.
Anaïs Nin once said, “And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom." In that spirit, I took a leap. I hired an accountant, formed an LLC, was approved for an agriculture license, and planted cold hardy flowers for spring blooms. This was happening. I sold naturally dried flowers at a pop-up market in our neighborhood and thought for the first time that I really could do this thing.
However, almost as soon as the spring flowers started to bloom last year, I fell ill. The floral scent of poppies is usually just mildly earthy and sweet, but there came a day when a walk near their row became possibly the most repugnant smell I’ve ever smelled. I couldn’t get out of the garden fast enough. I tried again the next day and the poppies weren’t the only flower making me nauseous. Coming inside, the dried flower arrangement on my dining room table revolted me too. Straight to the compost pile it went.
I soon knew what was happening. It was time for me to focus on growing something new - someone new. My pregnancy brought an aversion to flowers and plants, forcing me into a hiatus, and my garden, once a source of joy and pride, was now a reminder of my frailty. It felt like I failed before I even got to the runway. I kept my blinds closed and my boots sat dusty by the back door.
However, in my absence, the garden proved resilient. Months went by and we were blessed to welcome our second child as the leaves on our trees turned gold. He is a miracle through and through. As the aversions faded, I took a walk (very slowly) through our property. Anemones and ranunculus had naturalized and were beginning to peek through the dirt. Bells of Ireland, bupleurum, nigella, and snapdragons had self-sown their next generation. Despite my neglect, they were thriving in wild spaces of their own, and perhaps 2023 was really the year I let my garden grow.
