This is a story about a daughter’s unwavering love for her father. How his life—and his passing—planted the seeds for the birth of Haus of Madame Flora.
This is her grief, alchemized through flowers.
My Journey into the World of Floral Wellness
CHAPTER ONE
Depression Didn't Knock Politely: It Barged In
2016 was the year that everything broke. Losing my father was like having my heart ripped out, leaving a gaping wound that refused to heal. The grief was not only heavy; it was suffocating, like trying to catch your breath underwater. Depression didn’t knock politely; it barged in, uninvited and relentless.
My nights felt like I was shackled in a deep, dark cave with no way out, and my mornings felt like the weight of an elephant on my chest, making it hard to breathe. Every step felt like I wading through quicksand, and the world around me became muted, as if someone had tuned down the volume and dimmed the brightness on life.
I desperately wanted to escape the choke-hold that grief & depression had on me. I wanted to heal in a way that felt true to who I was, not just dull the sharp edges of my heartache. But I wasn’t looking to be fixed by a pill—I needed something holistic, something that could touch the depths of my soul. I wasn’t interested in numbing the pain; I wanted to understand it, to sit with it, to feel it.
CHAPTER TWO
Run! Flora, Run!
Fast-forward to 2019, a few days after my 36th birthday. The grief still had me in a stranglehold, lingering like an old scar that never quite fades. On an especially numb morning after dropping my son off at school, my grief hit a boiling point—even my emotions were experiencing burnout. I couldn’t sit still, couldn’t cry, couldn’t breathe. So, I did the only thing that made sense to me at the time—I started running.
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The run was unplanned, more like a desperate escape from my own mind. I felt like Forrest Gump, running because it was the only thing that felt right in that moment. What started as a slow, aimless stride turned into a full on sprint. My emotions began to swell, and the rhythm of my feet hitting the pavement felt like a silent rebellion against the weight I’d been carrying. It hit so hard that I couldn’t hold it in anymore. I found myself crying—deep, guttural sobs that came out of nowhere.
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And in the middle of it all, I asked myself, “Why am I crying?” It was absurd, really, and the absurdity of it made me laugh. There I was, swinging between tears and laughter, feeling like I was losing my mind. But even in that confusion, my heart kept pushing me: Run Flora, Run! It was a whisper that grew louder, an urge that made no sense but felt impossible to ignore.
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With no idea where I was going, I ended up following a pathway that veered off the main road to the left. I decided to explore it. I kept going until I stumbled upon it—my secret place. A field tucked away, surrounded by lush trees, almost hidden, as if it were meant only for me. Sunflowers and purple thistles stretched toward the sky, wild and untouched. I stood there, the trees bowing over me as if to welcome me, catching my breath, feeling both utterly lost and strangely found at the same time.
In that moment, the world fell silent. I took a deep breath, feeling the sun warm my skin as if it were a comforting hand on my shoulder.
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This field became my sanctuary. I found myself returning day after day, drawn by the quiet strength of the flowers. It was as if they were offering me a space to just be, without explanations or expectations. I’d sit among them, sometimes for hours, letting the sunlight seep into my skin and the wind carry away pieces of my pain.
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The sunflowers, with their wide-open faces, seemed to smile at the sky no matter what, while the thistles stood stubborn and strong—a reminder that beauty doesn’t always come without thorns. Little by little, the heaviness in my chest began to lift. The flowers didn’t take away my grief, but they softened it. They turned it into something I could carry without being crushed by it.
CHAPTER THREE
"Have a Good Day Babygirl!"
It started like any other day—a quick grocery run, my mind somewhere between the to-do list and the heaviness I couldn’t quite shake. The flowers at the store’s entrance caught my eye, a burst of color that seemed out of place among the fluorescent lights and the sound of shopping carts. I stopped, ran my fingers across the petals, and picked up a beautiful bouquet of red and orange roses, white lilies, and purple filler flowers. I inhaled deeply. They smelled so good—like something familiar yet fleeting. A little spark of something—joy, maybe—flickered inside me before I moved on.
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But life has a way of surprising you when you least expect it. As I stood in the checkout line, balancing my basket and my thoughts, a man—an older gentleman I had noticed earlier when I was looking at the flowers—walked up to me. He held a bouquet, the same one I had picked up previously, a cluster of blooms in full, unapologetic color. Without hesitation, he handed it to me and said, “Have a good day, babygirl.”
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In that moment, it felt like he knew. Like somehow, my hidden struggles weren’t so hidden after all. Like he could see straight through me, past the polite composure, past the weight I was carrying, and into the part of me that just needed a sign—something gentle, something kind. Before I could even process what had just happened, he was gone. No explanation, no lingering looks. Just the gift and the moment. I stood there, bouquet in hand, completely stunned. It was such a small act, yet it felt monumental. Like God had leaned in, reached out, and reminded me that I was still seen. The flowers didn’t just feel like a gift; they felt like a message.
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When I brought them home, they changed everything. My space, usually filled with a quiet stillness, seemed to exhale. The bouquet sat on my table, vibrant and alive, and it was as though their presence stretched beyond the vase, filling every corner with a calm I hadn’t felt in a long time. It was the same kind of calm I’d found in the field—the kind that whispers, “You’re going to be okay.”
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And so, I started bringing more flowers into my home. My go-to were the wildflowers that grew in my secret place. Not because I needed them to be pretty, but because they carried something more—energy, wisdom, a little slice of peace. Each one brought something different: sunflowers brightened my days; thistles stirred something deeper, asking me to reflect. They weren’t just flowers anymore; they were companions, reminders that even in the ordinary, there’s hope waiting to unfold.
CHAPTER FOUR
The Floral Afterlife
At first, I couldn’t bear to let them go. The sunflowers I brought home from my secret place felt like they carried pieces of the field’s magic—bright, bold reminders of the life I was still learning to embrace. I tried everything to keep them alive—changing their water, trimming their stems, holding on as if their fading would somehow reflect my own losses. I wanted to freeze them in their beauty, to stop time from moving forward. But, of course, I couldn’t.
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Slowly, as the petals began to curl and the stems bent under their own weight, the lesson became clear: their cycle wasn’t something to fight. It wasn’t a tragedy or a failure—it was a natural progression, as necessary as their bloom. The beauty of the sunflower wasn’t just in its vibrant, golden face; it was in its willingness to live fully and then bow out gracefully into the next phase.
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Watching their lifecycle unfold became a form of visual meditation for me. At first, I resisted. But as I sat with them, I saw their transition for what it truly was: a reflection of life itself. Their brilliance gave way to quiet wisdom, their fading petals telling a different kind of story—one of acceptance, resilience, and transformation. They weren’t dying; they were changing, making space for what comes next.
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It was through the sunflowers that I began to understand death—not as an ending, but as a continuation of the cycle. I saw parallels to my father’s passing, a loss that had left me hollow and searching for meaning. The sunflowers showed me that death is not the enemy; it’s a part of life’s rhythm. Their soft descent into stillness didn’t erase the beauty of their bloom—it honored it. And in their drying phase, I found grace, strength, and a quiet kind of beauty that spoke directly to my grief.
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I grew to love the dried flowers. The floral afterlife is what I called it. They were no longer remnants of what once was—they were something new, something just as profound. The slight tilt of a sunflower’s head, the way its petals folded inward, as if in prayer, became symbols of a truth I’d been struggling to accept: that letting go doesn’t mean losing. It means understanding. It means honoring the cycle.
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In time, the sunflowers taught me to embrace death as a natural part of life’s story. To stop clinging to what was and to trust in what will be. Their lifecycle became a quiet teacher, helping me process my father’s passing in a way I never thought possible. They reminded me that even in the fading, there is beauty—and even in the letting go, there is love.
CHAPTER FIVE
Drenched in Flowers
At some point in my journey, flowers stopped being something I admired from a distance and started becoming part of me. It began subtly—I’d make my own mini floral bouquet earrings using waxflowers and eucalyptus, and I’d weave sprigs of Baby’s Breath into my afro. It felt playful at first, like a small nod to the beauty I was trying to weave back into my life. But the more I wore them, the more I felt their energy—gentle, yet grounding, like they were whispering to me to slow down and breathe.
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Waxflower became a calm companion, soft but steady, helping me feel anchored when my mind ran away with itself. Baby’s Breath? It was a reminder—simple, light, but powerful—that not everything has to feel so heavy. Every time I put them on, it was like they were helping me find my balance again, holding space for emotions I hadn’t yet figured out how to name.
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Then came the patterns. Floral prints slowly crept into my wardrobe—vivid, bold designs on days when I needed courage, and softer, minimal patterns when I craved peace. Wearing them felt like a conversation between my inner world and my outer expression, a way to carry the flowers with me in more ways than one. They weren’t just clothes or accessories; they were extensions of me, reflecting the emotions I couldn’t yet put into words.
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But this wasn’t just about style. It was something deeper. Wearing flowers so close—feeling their textures, their shapes, the way they smelled—made me see them differently. They weren’t just pretty things; they carried messages, emotions, a kind of wisdom I was only beginning to understand. Each bloom seemed to nudge me toward reflection, teaching me to pause, to notice what was stirring beneath the surface.
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Through this tactile connection, I began to recognize that flowers had their own language, one that went beyond the visual. They were helping me tune into myself, gently peeling back layers I hadn’t realized were there. Each petal, each pattern, each quiet moment spent arranging them on my body or in my home brought me closer to their essence—the energy they carried and the lessons they seemed so willing to share.
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What started as a creative outlet became a ritual that deepened my relationship with the flowers and, in turn, with myself. They were teaching me, slowly and softly, to listen—to their quiet wisdom, to my own needs, to the world around me. Wearing them wasn’t just a step on my journey toward flower essence elixirs—it was a doorway into a new way of being, one where I felt more alive, more in tune, and more whole.
CHAPTER SIX
Discovering Flower Elixirs
By the time I stumbled upon flower elixirs (aka flower remedies), the flowers had already worked their quiet wisdom through me. Through their presence, their cycles, and the energy they carried, they had begun to heal wounds I thought were too deep to touch. But something about flower elixirs intrigued me—the idea that the energy signature of flowers could be captured and distilled into a liquid form that spoke directly to my pain. It sounded beautiful, almost too good to be true.
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I wanted to believe it, but I couldn’t ignore the skepticism tugging at the edges of my curiosity. The descriptions I read—dripping in celestial language about Archangel Michael, divine light activations, intergalactic transmissions, and way too many cosmic metaphors—felt too “out there,” like they were floating somewhere far above my reality. I just wanted something I could actually understand. Something down-to-earth. Something explained in plain terms that felt organic and grounded.
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I kept thinking, What if it’s just a placebo? What if it’s some JuJu? I wanted to try them so badly, but I needed proof. So instead of buying one, I found a tutorial and decided to make it myself. That was the only way I’d be able to trust it—if I saw the process with my own eyes, and worked with my own hands. I wasn’t looking for some mystical awakening. I just wanted to know, in the simplest way possible, if it actually worked. I needed to be sure that what I experienced came from the flower remedy itself.
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Hydrangea was the flower I chose. Its bold presence and layers of complexity felt like a reflection of everything I was navigating—grief, growth, and the search for beauty in places I hadn’t thought to look. Gathering the flowers, and preparing the elixir—I didn’t know if it would work, but I felt something shift even in the making of it. A quiet connection. A promise.
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When I took my first drops, it didn’t feel like magic, but it didn’t feel ordinary, either. It was subtle, like the way sunlight gently warms your skin without you noticing until it’s already there. Over time, I realized Hydrangea was working its way into the quiet corners of my soul. It didn’t fix me or erase my pain, but it brought me back to life in small, meaningful ways. It stirred memories I’d tucked away, softened the edges of my grief, and reminded me of the reasons why life was still worth living & loving.
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This wasn’t just about healing—it was about remembering. Remembering who I was before the loss of my father, before the heaviness. Remembering the parts of me that were still alive, still vibrant, still capable of joy. Hydrangea taught me that healing isn’t always loud or dramatic; sometimes, it’s quiet, gentle, and deeply personal.
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Making my own flower elixirs became a turning point in my journey. It bridged the gap between skepticism and intuition, grounding me in the truth that nature has a way of reaching us—if we let it. I believe God created flowers to support our emotional well-being, with each one tapping into a different part of us to reveal what needs attention. Every elixir I created became another step toward trust—trust in God, trust in the flowers, trust in the process, and, most importantly, trust in myself.
With every drop, I felt closer to the flowers that had comforted me in the field, closer to the wisdom they carried, and closer to the version of myself I was rediscovering. The discovery of flower elixirs wasn’t just a tool for healing—it was a return to wholeness, a way to carry the lessons of the flowers with me wherever I went.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Birth of Haus of Madame Flora
Looking back, it’s clear that every piece of this journey was leading me here, though I couldn’t see it at the time. Each moment—every sunflower I watched bow its head, every bouquet that softened my space, every flower I wore and elixir I created—was a thread in a larger tapestry. Together, they wove a story I didn’t even realize I was writing.
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The field of sunflowers and thistles taught me to embrace life’s cycles, even the endings. They held space for my grief, showing me that beauty isn’t diminished by loss—it transforms. The gifted bouquet reminded me that small acts of kindness can crack open even the heaviest days, letting light seep through. Wearing flowers became a way to express parts of myself I was rediscovering, a way to carry their energy with me. And flower elixirs? They became the bridge between all of it—a way to hold onto the lessons of the flowers and bring them into every corner of my life.
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The deeper I went, the more I understood that this wasn’t just about flowers—it was about healing, about self-discovery, about finding a language for the parts of us that often go unspoken. Flowers had become my allies, my mirrors, my guides in self-discovery. They reflected the journey I was on and offered me a way forward when I couldn’t find it on my own.
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That’s when it clicked: this wasn’t just my story. The peace, the wisdom, the transformation I found in the flowers wasn’t something I could keep to myself. I wanted to create a space where others could experience the same. A space where flowers weren’t just decoration but partners in growth. A space where people could reconnect with themselves in a way that felt natural, grounded, and deeply personal.
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And so, Haus of Madame Flora was born—a boutique floral wellness studio rooted in the idea that flowers can teach us everything we need to know about living, loving, letting go, and becoming. It’s a place where floral alchemy meets self-care, where flowers hold space for your growth, and where every petal tells a story. My hope is that this space can be for others what the flowers have been for me: a reminder of the beauty in every cycle of life.
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Because in the end, it’s not just about flowers—it’s about what they teach us, what they unlock, and how they help us come home to ourselves. The Floral Art of Becoming.™
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Flora Commandments
The lessons that this floral wellness journey taught me was to embrace life as it comes—raw and unpredictable. It showed me that healing isn’t about fixing what’s broken; it’s about tending to yourself with the same care and patience you would offer a loved one in need.
Through the wisdom of flowers, I’ve gathered lessons that guide me through the twists and turns of this journey. I call them my Flora Commandments. These aren’t "rules" per say; they’re gentle reminders to live fully and authentically, wherever you are on your path. They’ve taught me to love myself fully, root myself deeply, honor my truth unapologetically, express myself boldly, and celebrate each phase of growth.
Know Thyself
The wisdom of flowers taught me that to truly bloom, you must first understand the soil you’re rooted in. Self-awareness isn’t just about knowing your likes and dislikes—it’s about diving deeper, into the parts of yourself that are easy to ignore. It’s about asking, What nourishes me? What drains me? What do I need to thrive? And more importantly, Am I willing to face the answers?
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Like flowers, we each have our unique needs. Some flowers thrive in the sun; others need the shade. I had to sit with myself and ask the hard questions: What environments allow me to grow? What beliefs have I outgrown? What patterns have been stifling my bloom? The process wasn’t always gentle—digging through the layers never is—but it was necessary.
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Knowing yourself is about self-reflection and honesty. Nature never hides it's flaws— each imperfection is part of the story. Flowers reminded me to stop shying away from my own shadows, to embrace the parts of myself that didn’t fit into neat, pretty boxes. I began to understand that self-awareness isn’t about judgment; it’s about compassion. It’s about seeing yourself clearly and still choosing to nurture what you find.
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The more I tuned into myself, the more I realized how often I had been living out of alignment. Saying yes when I meant no. Shrinking when I should have stood tall. But the wisdom of flowers reminded me that authenticity is where growth begins. When you know yourself—your needs, your desires, your boundaries—you can root yourself in choices that honor your truth.
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Know Thyself. Not as a one-time revelation, but as a daily practice of listening, reflecting, growing and learning to follow the light within you. It’s not always easy, but it’s always worth it. Because when you know yourself, you give yourself permission to bloom on your own terms.
Love Thyself
The first lesson that the wisdom of flowers whispered to me was this: you can’t bloom for the world until you’ve tended to your own roots. At first, I didn’t want to hear it. Loving yourself sounds easy in theory, but in practice? It’s anything but. It’s facing the parts of yourself you’ve ignored, forgiving the parts you’ve judged, and embracing the parts you’ve hidden away. But nature didn’t let me off the hook. It's gentle presence reminded me that true love starts within.
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Loving yourself isn’t a fleeting act of indulgence—it’s a daily devotion, a sacred tending. It’s the quiet moments when you choose rest over running yourself ragged. It’s the hard decisions that honor your well-being, even if they disappoint others. It’s standing in the mirror and saying, I see you. All of you. And knowing that’s enough.
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I learned that self-love is like caring for a garden. Some days, it’s effortless—your spirit blooms effortlessly in the sun. Other days, it’s messy—pulling weeds, dealing with droughts, or tending to parts that feel like they’ll never grow again. But every act of care, no matter how small, is a declaration: I am worthy, and I deserve to be here.
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The wisdom of flowers taught me that the world reflects how you care for yourself. A peony doesn’t apologize for taking up space, and neither should you. When you pour love into yourself, you create a life where you can flourish—not just survive, but thrive.
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Love thyself. Not because someone told you to, not because it’s easy, but because your soul deserves the same love you so freely give to everyone else. The same love the flowers show to the earth that nourishes them. The same love that says: You are already whole.
Be True to Thyself
One of the hardest lessons the wisdom of flowers taught me was this: you can’t bloom in someone else’s garden. At first, it sounds simple—"just be true to yourself". But living it? That’s where the inner work begins. Being true to yourself means standing in your own truth, even when it feels shaky. It means honoring the version of you that exists beneath the expectations, the compromises, the masks you’ve worn to fit in.
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Nature never pretends to be something it's not. A magnolia doesn’t try to be a rose; a thistle doesn’t apologize for its thorns. They grow as they are, unapologetically. And that’s the lesson that hit me hardest: authenticity isn’t about perfection. It’s about showing up as you are, flaws and all, and knowing that you’re still have value.
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The truth is, being true to yourself sometimes means walking away from the comfort of familiarity to protect your peace. Sometimes it means sitting with yourself, in the quiet and the discomfort, and asking, What do I really want? What do I truly need? The answers don’t always come quickly, but they always come when you’re willing to listen.
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To thine own self be true. It’s a promise you make to yourself—to stop dimming your light to make others comfortable, to stop shrinking so you’ll fit. Nature taught me that there’s beauty in growing on your own terms, even if it means standing alone for a while. Because when you’re rooted in your truth, you bloom in ways that feel real, not forced. And that’s the kind of beauty that lasts.
Express Thyself
The wisdom of flowers taught me that self-expression is a lifeline. They don’t hold back their colors or shapes; they don’t worry about whether they’ll be liked or understood. They just bloom. And that’s the energy I had to learn to channel in my own life.
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For me, flowers became a way to express the emotions I couldn’t always put into words. The act of arranging them, wearing them, or even just sitting with them felt like a dialogue—a conversation between the person I was and the person I was becoming. Every petal, every placement was a reflection of my inner world, messy and beautiful all at once.
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But expression doesn’t stop at flowers. The more I let myself explore creatively, the freer I felt. I started journaling, wearing colors that mirrored my mood, and finding small, intentional ways to let my soul speak. The flowers taught me that self-expression isn’t about being perfectly polished—it’s about being real. It’s about letting what’s inside flow outward, whether it’s through art, words, or simply how you choose to show up in the world.
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To Express Thyself is to honor your truth. It’s a declaration that says, I’m here, and this is me. Nature reminded me that no bloom hides its beauty, and neither should I. Whether bold or soft, loud or quiet, every form of expression is valid, because it’s yours.
Celebrate Thyself
The wisdom of flowers taught me something I hadn’t realized I’d forgotten: how to celebrate myself—not just in the big, obvious moments, but in the small, quiet ones too. They bloom boldly, as if to say, This is who I am, and that’s worth celebrating. Joy isn’t reserved for the perfect day or the perfect moment; it’s woven into every phase of their existence.
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For so long, I waited to celebrate. I thought joy was something you earned after reaching a milestone, checking off a goal, or being “enough” in someone else’s eyes. But the nature reminded me that every part of the journey deserves honor. The budding phase, when growth feels invisible. The blooming phase, when you finally stand tall in your glory. And even the fading phase, when the beauty shifts into something quieter but no less profound. Each moment holds its own kind of magic, and each one is worth celebrating.
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So, I started small. I celebrated getting through tough days, moments when I chose myself, even the tiniest victories that felt too insignificant to matter to anyone but me. And yet, those small celebrations? They added up. They taught me to see my journey for what it was: a beautiful, messy, miraculous unfolding.
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Celebrate Thyself isn’t about waiting for the world to validate you. It’s about validating yourself. It’s about pausing to say, I’m proud of how far I’ve come, even if I’m not where I want to be yet. It’s recognizing that your growth, your resilience, and your unique path deserve acknowledgment. Just like the flowers, we’re blooming in our own time, and that alone is reason enough to celebrate.
