A flower is never in a hurry —and yet it becomes everything it is meant to be.

As a child, flowers were simple.Daisies woven into crowns.Petals pulled gently — loves me, loves me not.Small hands holding something fragile,not yet knowing how easily beauty can bruise.

Later, I learned that flowers are stronger than they look. They grow through cracks in stone. Turn toward light even after storms. Bloom in places no one thought life could reach.

Some flowers open only once. Others return, season after season,as if memory itself lives in their roots.

I have been both.

There were times I bloomed too early,giving colour where there was no warmth. And times I closed completely,protecting what was left of me.

But still —something in me kept growing.

That is the quiet truth of a flower.It does not ask permission to become.It does not apologise for taking up space.

It simply opens when the time is right.

And maybe we are not so different —soft, resilient,rooted in places others cannot see,learning, slowly,to turn toward the light. 🌸✨

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