a love letter to zinnias

Written by Jessica Davies

Last fall, I saved your seeds with quiet optimism. I wasn’t sure what would come of you — if you’d survive the long, frozen sleep of winter, or if the memory of your blooms would be all that remained. Still, I tucked you away gently, holding onto the soft hope that spring might wake you again.

When the days grew warm enough, I pressed you into the soil, whispering promises of sunshine and summer rain. The spring was a restless one — cold snaps, sudden heat, rain that came in torrents and then not at all. Your germination was spotty, your first leaves curled and wrinkled, your growth uneven and unpredictable. For a moment, I thought I might lose you.

And yet, you surprised me.
You stretched upward, quietly gathering strength in your own way, in your own time. And then one morning, as if you had been planning it all along, you bloomed.

Sunset orange kissed with coral. Creamy ivory with golden throats. Petals blushed in soft pinks and wild ombrés that looked like the sky at dawn. Each bloom was a small rebellion against doubt, a reminder that beauty often arrives on the heels of uncertainty.

This is the gift you gave me: the lesson that growth is not always linear, that resilience can wear the face of a flower, and that sometimes the most breathtaking things emerge from seasons of struggle.

So, thank you, dear zinnias, for showing up — for reminding me that nature’s timing, or rather Gods timing, is always right. Even in the most unpredictable conditions, life will find its way to bloom.