God, show me what healthy feels like.
God, show me what love feels like.

Lately, I’ve noticed a deep sensitivity awakening within me. Instead of resisting it, I’m listening. It has become a compass—guiding me back to my values, my truth, and to the quiet place where flowers have always been my refuge.

As a teenager, when life felt off-balance, I found safety in flower shops. The moment I walked in, something softened. The noise disappeared. Flowers held a protective stillness, reminding me of pure love—of beauty existing no matter the circumstance. They taught me that there is always a silver lining.

That same stillness guided me as I wrote my book. The only way I could create was by allowing the flowers to speak through me. I had to quiet ego, silence fear, and trust what came forward. Writing became an act of surrender—of opening my heart fully and allowing myself to be a vessel.

Today, as my work enters homes through bookstores and pages, I sit with both gratitude and vulnerability. I wonder how the messages will be received, but I trust the language of flowers. They speak gently, honestly, and without agenda.

One of my greatest truths is this: while I long to share my life with someone, learning to fully share my life with myself has been essential. My circle is intentionally small. I protect my energy. Success, for me, is rooted in peace.

I want to move through each day present and aware—uplifting those I encounter, never depleting them. When I design flowers, I listen deeply, choosing what feels aligned and intentional. Often, people leave moved, reminded of something they already knew but had forgotten.

That is my purpose.

When I enter a room, I want my presence to feel like light—calm, grounded, and generous. I want to flood spaces with positivity and remind people of their own inner stillness.

God, show me what healthy feels like.
God, show me what love feels like.

And help me stay open—so the flowers can continue to speak.