It started with a phone call on a quiet morning—the kind where sunlight spills across the kitchen table and you let yourself believe that life might finally be opening instead of closing. For fifteen years, my world had revolved around my flower shop, Bloom & Blossom. My days began before dawn at the wholesale market, fingers numb from cold as I inspected stems and petals, and they often ended well past midnight with my hands aching from wiring bouquets for weddings I’d never attend as a guest.

Holidays were my busiest seasons, spent crafting centerpieces for celebrations I only experienced through photographs customers later showed me. I loved the work, but it consumed everything. When I finally sold the shop, the decision felt like grief mixed with relief. I cried the day I handed over the keys, then slept for twelve straight hours that night. The money from the sale wasn’t extravagant, but it was the most I’d ever had at one time. It represented choice. Time. Possibility. I imagined traveling without rushing, maybe taking classes, maybe just learning how to live without measuring every hour in stems sold and invoices paid.