New year, fresh perspective.
I’m noticing something quiet and hopeful unfolding across many of the communities I admire—an intentional leaning toward more rest, more enoughness, and less rush and hustle. It feels like a collective exhale. A remembering that growth does not have to be frantic to be meaningful.
Recently, a fellow flower farmer said something that has stayed with me: “Find the right people, and the money will come.” Simple. Grounding. Almost radical in a world that insists we chase scale before substance.
That idea—paired with this growing sense of enoughness—has nudged me to reevaluate my goals for this very first year as a commercial grower. Instead of asking How fast can I grow? or How much can I produce? I’m trying to ask better questions:
What does sustainability look like—not just for the land, but for me? What size allows for care, curiosity, and joy? What vision actually fits this season of life?
I’m working hard to right-size and right-vision this endeavor. To let it be what it is, instead of what I think it should become as quickly as possible.
That said, honesty matters here.
I am still very much struggling with imposter syndrome. Some days it’s loud. Pair that with self‑induced pressure to produce, perform, and scale quickly, and it can leave me feeling anxious—questioning not just my decisions, but the entire vision itself. There are moments when I wonder if I’m behind, if I missed a memo, if everyone else is somehow doing this with more certainty.
But farming—especially flower farming—has a way of teaching patience whether you ask for the lesson or not. Seeds do not respond to urgency. Bulbs bloom when they’re ready. The land doesn’t reward hustle; it responds to attention.
So, this year, I’m choosing to believe that slow is not a failure, and small is not a lack of ambition. I’m choosing to trust that finding the right people—the ones who value seasonality, care, beauty, and intention—really is enough to build something lasting.
This first year isn’t about perfection. It’s about learning the land, learning myself, and allowing the farm to grow at a pace that feels honest.
Here’s to beginnings that are thoughtful instead of rushed. To visions that fit. To growth that leaves room to breathe.
We’re right where we’re supposed to be.