Why I Want to be a Flower Farmer: Reason #27: Flowers helped me through post-partum anxiety.

In July 2020, I made a floral arrangement for the first time. More specifically, I made large floral letters that spelled out my daughter’s name for her bedroom. We were knee-deep in the global COVID-19 shutdown, and I’ll never forget hunkering down on our living room floor after putting my daughter to bed. Hot glue gun, wire cutters, blooms upon blooms of (artificial) flowers in light pink, blush, creams, and whites. You know when you get so into a project that time moves at a ridiculously accelerated speed? You look up and realize it’s 1:00 am even though you would have bet money it was 9:00 pm.   

That’s what happened. It was like I entered a little bubble of a magical world where I could finally BREATHE. And I mean that quite literally. Because before those evenings with those flowers, I felt like I couldn’t breathe. And I mean that literally.   

A year earlier in 2019 I had my first baby. Five months later, we moved across the country to a city where we had no friends or family, bought a townhouse we had never seen, and my husband started a new job. About seven months after that, there was a global pandemic. 

It was a difficult season. 

Like many of us, I tried to keep it all together at first. I told myself it was all temporary, it would be over soon, and that I could smile through it and remain optimistic and strong.  

And I’m not just talking about COVID. The global shutdown was only part of it.  

I also had not really made any close friends in our new city. My husband’s new, stressful, and demanding job took a toll, especially when he started working from home. On top of it all, I was postpartum. Sometime in the spring or early summer of 2020, I started perpetually feeling like I couldn’t take a deep enough breath. 

And I felt alone.  

At first, I thought maybe it was medical. Is something wrong with my lungs? Could it be asthma? I investigated everything and talked to my primary care provider. I even got bloodwork done, an X-ray, and an EKG. There was no reason that I should be having trouble breathing—or perhaps more aptly stated, the sensation of not being able to breathe—except for one thing.  

Anxiety. After working with a counselor, we realized it was, more specifically, post-partum anxiety.  

I thought it was so weird! I thought I was doing fine (at least on paper)! My brain had been able to create mental coping strategies (or so I thought). I could tell myself things were temporary. I wasn’t crying all the time or anything like that. I had none of the symptoms that I had traditionally associated with mental illness. I didn’t have a category for the shortness of breath, but I certainly didn’t think my mental health was the problem.  

My body knew better. It was telling me something.  

I had heard lots of things about post-partum depression. I had filled out all those little screenings at the OBGYN and pediatrician, answered, “fine!” when the doctors asked how I was doing, but I had never even heard the term post-partum anxiety. It wasn’t until after my second baby that I finally put the pieces together and connected the dots. It took me a long time to realize (and admit) that my anxiety symptoms were post-partum related.  

Sometimes, things aren’t exactly what you think they will be. I had dreamy and optimistic ideas of what it would be like to have a baby. It couldn’t have been more different from what I pictured. Did I have lots of baby snuggles, sweet baby bath times, and cherished new family memories? Yeah, I did! Did I also have several daily instances where I felt like I couldn’t breathe? Couldn’t remember something that happened just an hour or two ago? New aches and pains and tensions in my body I’d never felt before? Trouble falling asleep even though I was more physically exhausted than ever? 

Yeah. Those things too.  

But there was something about arranging those flowers.  

There’s something about creating something that didn’t exist before. Or maybe it’s just how my mind was distracted by something beautiful, something that didn’t have to do with cleaning, meeting new people, figuring out groceries, breastfeeding, or a screaming baby.  It helped me turn down the mental noise I didn’t even realize was there. It helped me return to myself and remember what it feels like to have fun, pause, rest, and breathe. Intentionally look to experience peace and enjoyment. 

Now, flash forward four and a half years. Now I have FOUR kids. You read that right. Yes, I had four kids in five and a half years. We didn’t plan it that way, but God did (that’s a whole other blog post).  

The point is, I’ve learned a thing or two about what it means to rest and how needed it is for my health (and survival!). To take a moment and sit down on the inside.  To find something in which to delight! To have fun! These things seem simple as I write them, but they are so, so hard with such young children. 

In other news, I’ve also been absolutely and entirely gripped with a passion to start a flower farm. A micro-farm, rather. I think explaining that decision and how it connects is another blog post. But the point is this:  

I want to be a farmer-florist when I grow up.  

I want to spend as much time as possible cutting flowers, arranging them, smelling them, breathing them in.  

Breathing.  

Soothing my body and nervous system by giving my mind a break, accessing my creativity, wonder, and sense of thrill, and enjoying the beautiful world God created.  

It’s okay for things to be different than you thought they’d be. It’s okay to change your mind. To be something different when you grow up. To be new at something. To be new somewhere.  

But you’re not alone. Talk to your doctor, a counselor, your trusted family and friends. Find something that delights you and make time to get lost in it. Be creative and unproductive, at least for a few moments each day.  

Oh! And there’s always flowers, too.  :)  

Here’s a couple of throw back photos from the end of 2020!

Why I Want to Be a Flower Farmer: Reason # 39. I had a watering can in college.

I’ve always had a plant. 

A mentor of mine gave me a plant as a high school graduation gift. Something to brighten up my dorm room, she said. I wish I could remember the plant name because it was a beautiful plant. Big dark green leaves, full, lush, everything you want in a plant. It grew a lot that first semester in college. 

So did I.  

In high school, one of my friends' moms had somewhat randomly given my mom a gift —some gift basket or something—I don’t remember why or what. This adorable miniature galvanized steel watering can was part of that gift. It was similar in size to a coffee mug, with a little handle and spout and everything. It was so precious. I asked my mom if I could take it to college to water my plant, and she said yes!  

At the time, I was a musical theater major. As such, I was in acting classes (oh, the Drama!!). Early in the spring semester, there was a day in my Acting II class when we talked about props. Everyone was told to take an object from their dorm room and bring it with them to class. Unsure of what this assignment was about, I grabbed my cute little watering can and rushed to class.  

We sat in a circle (it was a small class, and we met in a dance studio), and the professor called on us individually. We each shared what we brought and explained what it was. Our professor slowly and graciously asked thoughtful and gently probing follow-up questions. As she did, we began to uncover that the seemingly small and random assortment of objects everyone had brought were immensely treasured and multifaceted little carriers of depth, emotions, and memories. A picture grabbed from the wall is not just a picture. It symbolizes your love for your dad back home and what your time spent with him has meant; the life and joy it brings you. A sweatshirt is not just a sweatshirt. It’s a snapshot of your time in high school, memories and smells and sounds of friends, challenges, and growing up—familiar warmth and comfort.  

When it came to my turn to share my watering can, I froze. Clammed up, really. I know my professor could tell I was guarded. She asked a couple of questions, and I mumbled some gibberish about my friend’s mom, how she had given it to my mom, how I missed my friends from home, blah blah blah. I remember feeling a little short-changed, and embarrassed even. Like my silly little watering can didn’t mean anything. Other people in the class were brought to tears as they reflected on their cherished objects! I just thought mine was cute, I guess?  

At the close of our conversation, it was clear we had learned that objects aren’t just objects. Objects have so much more meaning than we typically ascribe to them. When we’re little kids it goes without requiring explanation. Of course, that “blankie” is so much more than just a blanket; that mangled stuffed giraffe is so much more than a stuffed animal. It’s our world! It’s comfort in a transition, courage when there is fear, a friend with whom to share joy and celebrations and snuggles.  

 
I think we do this as adults too.  

Only now can I look back and see my mom carefully weeding and watering flowers in our yard and on our porch for my whole life. Only now do I recognize how deep my love for my mom is, how much I gained from just watching her go about her life: loving flowers, loving being outside in the sun, loving people and community and constantly inviting others into our home—heaping blessings on them with her laughter and hospitality and helpfulness. Of course, a watering can made me smile in my dorm room as I watered my plant and remembered growing up. Even if that memory wasn’t consciously reflected upon in the moment, it was always in the background. The way background music sets the tone in a movie; that plant was setting a tone in my new young adult life. Reminding me about joy, sunshine, and what it is to love and be loved. And all those gifts and virtues were available to me even though I was in a new place and things were new and scary. It reminded me of who I was.  

At the end of our class conversation that day I remember my professor driving home the point about how we should interact with objects (again, in an acting class, we were applying this to using props in a scene). I remember her saying again that all the objects we had brought for our little show-and-tell were so much more than what they appeared to be on the surface, and she had proved that through her follow-up questions. She said there were some of us to whom she could have pressed into more and asked deeper questions, and we would have seen this connection even more. But she didn’t want to push any of us who may have had some more emotions under the surface.   

She was for sure talking about me.  

Well, Lori, and all my classmates from that day, I’m ready to tell you.  

Plants actually mean the world to me. It was never about the watering can, or even my friend or her mom. It was about my mom. It was about picturing my mom watering her hanging baskets on a sunny day the way she always would.  

It’s flowers. Flowers I carried close, often with trembling hands, in countless weddings (both my own and of cherished friends).  

The tender losses of my grandfathers and my uncle, and how flowers and plants were there to make the spaces in which we remembered and grieved more special and more beautiful.  

It’s my dad bringing home fresh flowers for my mom.  Watching her carefully and thoughtfully re-cut and arrange them in a vase; enjoying them abundantly for every moment of their vase life. She never just plopped them in a vase; it was always caring and deliberate. The same way she is with people. 

That little plant I had in my dorm room was like a little vessel in which I could be momentarily transported to the places where I loved and experienced love the most. Isn’t that what flowers do? That’s why they matter so much and always will.  

So that’s why, ever since, I have always had at least one plant. From the small aloe vera plant in our tiny apartment when my husband and I first got married to the collection of indoor plants I am tending to tonight on this New Year’s Eve. And now, as I look forward to 2025, I’m so incredibly thrilled to be starting Walton Family Flowers, a flower micro-farm right in our backyard. My goal is to harness the magical power of flowers and spread happiness to everyone I can!  

There is so much to look forward to as I collect seed packets, prepare my seedling trays and grow lights, feed the soil of the future flower beds, and work on crop plans, budgets, and spreadsheets to make it all happen. But I know it will all be worth it. Because in every transition, even when it’s scary and unknown, there are plants to water. And they will grow.  

And so will I.  

Happy New Year.