I was a little girl standing beneath a flower arch in the 1980s. Not a grand ballroom, not a cathedral. A backyard. A jacuzzi nearby. The kind of place where laughter echoes a little louder and everything feels just a touch more real.

The arch was wrapped in leather fern, baby’s breath, and carnations. Simple. Textural. Alive.

I remember my dress. Handmade. Silk. Ruffled in all the ways that felt wrong to me at the time. I didn’t like it. It didn’t feel like me. But then there was the flower crown.

That changed everything.

It was like someone had quietly placed a halo of belonging on my head. Suddenly, I wasn’t just a kid in a dress I didn’t choose. I was part of something. I felt seen, even if I didn’t yet have the language for that feeling.

And then I looked around.

My mom was getting married. Finally. There was a sense of arrival in the air, like a long-held breath being released. It was at my Auntie Bevie and Uncle Steve’s house, one of my favorite places in the world. Safe. Warm. Full of stories and people I loved.

But what pulled me in deeper than anything… were the flowers.

I didn’t just see them. I felt them.

I noticed how the carnations grounded the space. There was a steadiness to them, like quiet pillars holding the emotion of the day. The baby’s breath softened everything, like a whisper floating between conversations. The leather fern framed it all, creating structure without stealing attention.

And somewhere in that moment, something clicked.

Not loudly. Not dramatically.

But clearly.

I remember thinking…
“I would have done this differently.”

Not from a place of criticism. From a place of possibility.

I could see how the energy could shift with different choices. How color could deepen emotion. How texture could tell a story. How flowers weren’t just decoration… they were the atmosphere. They were the feeling you carried home with you after the last guest left.

Standing under that arch, I realized something most people don’t realize until much later in life:

Flowers create the experience.

They hold memory. They shape emotion. They elevate moments from “nice” to unforgettable.

And I knew, even then, that I wanted to be part of that.

I wanted to design feelings.

I wanted to build moments people could step into and feel changed by.

That little girl in the silk dress she didn’t like… she found herself in a crown of flowers and a vision of what could be.

And from that day forward, I never looked at flowers the same way again.

They weren’t just pretty.

They were powerful.

They were medicine.

And somehow, without anyone telling me, I already knew…
this was going to be my life.