
Someone like my grandmother.
She was offered thousands for her paintings and never sold a single one—on purpose.
It was never about that.
She painted to quiet her spirit.
To speak the unspeakable.
To pour light onto canvas and let it speak when words couldn’t.
Each painting was a quiet act of generosity.
Each brushstroke, a kind of prayer.
She gave them away freely.
Hung them in her home.
Tucked them into corners of churches and community rooms.
And now—years later—her legacy isn’t what she made.
It’s what she gave.
And what she stayed:
soft, steady, radiant.
She was a woman who wasn’t exactly what you’d picture when you think of soft.
She kept her hair short—always.
Hairsprayed to perfection, not a strand out of place.
She wore a sharp, steady smile, or none at all.
And her tongue? It could be cutting. Brutally honest in a way that didn’t flinch.
I’m only now—at thirty-five—able to part my hair down the middle without hearing her voice echo in my mind,
telling eight-year-old me I looked like Pee-wee Herman.
(It was the short haircut. I was trying something new.)
But this—this painting, this giving—
this was the soft part of her.
Soft like that half-smile she did sometimes,
like she was trying not to seem amused. Or kind. Or gentle.
Trying not to let you know she cared.
But she did.
And you could see it,
not always in her words,
but in the way she painted light into dark corners—
and gave it away without needing anyone to say thank you.
Blooming can seem like it should be an event.
Like the corpse flower—rare, dramatic—drawing a crowd just to witness its opening.
But real-life blooming usually isn’t like that.
Most of the time, it’s quiet.
Almost imperceptible.
It’s the blooming of my ministering sister:
in her check-ins, her hugs, her soft presence, her small gifts, her steady love.
Not loud, not showy.
But constant.
A life poured out in gentle, daily yeses.
It’s the blooming in hard seasons that takes my breath away.
Like the daisy that pushes through a crack in the concrete—
fragile, determined, wild with grace.
Like the mother who wrestles with anxiety but keeps coming to church,
week after week,
with two little children under four,
even when her husband stopped coming.
She arrives anyway—tired, trembling, but blooming.
Like my friends,
who lost children—
who lost their best friend—
in a car crash that shattered so much.
And still, they show up.
Every week.
To teach at co-op.
To serve at church.
To sing at events.
To bring their gifts—voice, violin, presence—
to a world that keeps turning, even after theirs cracked open.
That’s blooming.
Not the loud kind.
The sacred, stubborn kind.
Like my friend—
a mother of two under five—
whose belly is blooming now,
not for herself,
but as a surrogate for a family waiting with breath held and hearts wide open
for the arrival of their darling baby girl.
Like my sister-in-law,
who once bloomed her womb for another family too—
and now stands steady and strong for her boys
after the hurricane stripped their home to the studs—
and then another came, just days later.
This is the kind of blooming I think of often.
The kind that doesn’t draw crowds.
The kind that happens quietly, courageously, continuously.
Women who believe their blossoms go unnoticed.
Who think their bloom isn’t big enough, bold enough, bright enough.
But they don’t see—
how breathtaking their blossoms really are.
I think of my mother—
always giving.
A wedding attended in unbearable pain,
her shoulder shattered, surgery waiting—
but she was there.
For family.
For love.
For the moment.
She helps my homeless brother tirelessly.
She is there for every appointment,
every hospital stay,
every late-night worry
for my brothers with fragile bodies and complex needs.
I think of my mother-in-law—
who just yesterday brought me literal blooms from her yard.
Who wakes early to take my youngest to forest school,
because my anxiety makes traffic feel like war.
She does this without complaint.
She gives grandma time freely,
even when it means getting locked out of her house for nearly an hour.
Even then—she showed up again to take the other two.
To soak up more love before we move.
I see the blooming happening in my nine-year-old, too.
It doesn’t always look calm.
The emotions are hard to balance—
but the heart is so big.
A few days ago, on the first morning her dad was out of town—
she knew it would be hard for me.
She woke up early,
made chocolate chip pancakes for her little brothers,
cleaned it all up,
and brought me Perk in bed. It’s my favorite morning drink.
She is learning what it means to bloom.
To notice someone else’s heaviness.
To offer comfort not because it’s expected,
but because it’s needed.
Because love makes her brave.
And so I gather these blooms.
Not the ones on display.
Not the ones spotlighted in galleries or podiums.
But the quiet ones.
The sidewalk daisies.
The front yard roses picked in morning light.
The belly carrying someone else’s baby.
The aching shoulder dressed in grace.
The grandmother knocking on a locked door with arms still open wide.
These are the blossoms I hold close.
These are the women I want to be like.
The ones who don’t announce their blooming.
They simply bloom.
Again and again.
For love.
For family.
For calling.
For joy.
Most blooming is done in quiet.
But that doesn’t make it any less miraculous.
So this—
this is for the ones who stayed soft.
Who bloomed anyway.
You can find the first part of my poem The Ones Who Stayed Soft published in this gorgeous literary journal,
’ newest issue “Bloom”!They plan to share each piece of this publication on their SubStack, petal by petal in the order of the issue. Mine is first, so it will be published on their Substack tomorrow too! I’ll link over to it there once it’s up.
Please visit the link below to open this bouquet and see the first part of this poem:
Beautiful share.
A note to let you know that I’ve completed your Creative Health Assessment and sent it over via email. Let me know if for some reason it’s not received.
Sometimes email gets finicky with attachments! :)
Your work is truly inspiring. I appreciate your invitation to look at it in this way.
This is a beautiful, heartfelt and honest writing 💖 Thank you for sharing with us.