A Floral Confession

I have a confession to make. I’m picky. Okay, let me rephrase that. I’m aesthetically picky, and it torments my husband. My sisters and close friends tease me about it, and I don’t mind. I own it now, but I felt bad when I first started noticing it.

Funny enough, I first noticed it when I started receiving flowers on Valentine’s Day. I would feel so touched that a guy would send me flowers, and then almost immediately feel guilty because I didn’t actually like them. I never complained. I never confessed my preferences. I just accepted the gesture, felt grateful, and quietly wondered what was wrong with me. Classic shame spiral.

Then I met my husband, and over time I started experimenting with my preferences out loud. I would let him know what I didn’t like and what I thought I liked, only to realize later that sometimes I didn’t really like that either.

Side note, I love receiving flowers from my son. Seeing him walk in with a bouquet and hand them over to me makes me tear up every time. And when a friend sends flowers, I’m always so touched. But there is something about a man sending flowers that doesn’t quite land for me. I don’t know if it feels too expected, too temporary, or too wrapped up in a version of romance I don’t fully connect with, but it has never felt like my thing.

Which is why I was so happy, and honestly my husband probably was too, when I finally figured out what I do like: something that can grow. Herbs, a lilac bush, a lavender plant, even a fruit tree. Truly, bring me a lemon tree and I will offer to wash your car every Sunday for as long as I remember, which is likely two weeks before I start forgetting. Not on purpose, I swear. Well, maybe subconsciously.

Over the years, I’ve loved tending to these plants and watching them grow. They become little living symbols of his love for me around our home. They change with the seasons, need care, and keep offering something back. That feels romantic to me.

I’m grateful that he lets me be myself and honors my preferences, even when they are oddly specific and mildly inconvenient. Although, when you look at the cost of a dozen roses on Valentine’s Day, maybe he should be buying me two or three plants. So don’t feel too bad for him. This is actually more affordable.

There is something deeply loving about being known that way, especially when being known includes, “Please don’t buy me roses, but I would absolutely accept a lavender plant and make it my whole personality for three weeks.”