The Garden she left inside me
When my mother passed away in 2005, the house felt unusually still. The morning after, I noticed a bowl of water with rose petals she had left to steep—she often kept rose petals floating in water to prepare rose water for her daily self-care. It was an ordinary object, yet it carried her presence in a way words could not.
For years after that, I found it difficult to look at roses. They felt too closely tied to loss. But in 2020, after fifteen years of turning away from them, my healing began quietly. It took five steady years to understand grief as a slow, evolving process something that softens with time rather than disappears.
By 2025, I felt ready to return to flowers. I began working on a small regenerative garden in Goa Velha, learning floriculture and reconnecting with soil, climate, and the rhythms of a place. Around this time, I picked up my Lensbaby—the lens I bought 17 years ago. Its soft, selective focus felt right for this journey. It photographs the world the way memory behaves for me: not always sharp, but always present.
In tending to roses and hibiscus, I realised they were not reminders of loss but messages. They taught me that what my mother cared for ecology, reuse, mindfulness continues to live quietly inside me.
There is still so much to learn about ecology and the many ways plants support both emotional and environmental wellbeing. As I continue building this regenerative garden, I hope to share more stories from the floriculture world my own and those of other growers and document how regenerative floriculture can heal land, deepen care, and shape new connections.
