I'll take the rose-colored glasses
How a single prick taught me to let go.
The sky stretched endlessly above me, a flawless crystal blue, only disrupted by rays of illuminating light contrasting against it as if an artist had brushed it. The countryside of Portugal rolled out before me, lush and green, while bursts of blooming flowers blurred together in the distance like an impressionist painting.
I feel the warmth of the sun beaming on my skin and suddenly, soft breeze on my face and trails playfully through my hair, lingering behind a cloud of a dreamy aroma, igniting my senses. The scent stopped me in my tracks.
It wasn’t the expected fresh and earthy fragrance of the garden path; this was something different—light, creamy, and floral, with a sweetness that felt like I was inhaling the taste of crème brûlée.
I turned, to find the source of the aroma. It was intoxicating.
A cobblestone path beckoned me deeper into the garden, where vines wove themselves into intricate patterns and nature had taken over, wild and free. Tucked away behind an overgrown arch, I saw it—a gardenia tree, its long, white blossoms cascading from its branches like nature’s chandelier. The scent grew stronger as I approached, filling the air with a softness that felt almost sacred.
Standing there, beneath the gardenia tree, I was struck by its beauty but also by a feeling of quiet reverence. I leaned in to inhale its fragrance and felt an unspoken connection to something ancient, something eternal.
In ancient lore, gardenias were known as Moon Tears, sacred to Morpheus, the Greek god of dreams. The blooms were said to carry the moon’s light, symbolizing intuition and the promise of renewal. They were thought to bridge the mortal and the divine, their scent a doorway to the subconscious, inviting us to dream and reflect.
For Morpheus, the gardenia was a vessel for dreams, a way to whisper truths into the hearts of mortals. Its blooms represented hope for a new day and the strength to leave the past behind, a sentiment that resonated deeply in this moment.
As I stood there, I thought about the gardenias I’d seen throughout my childhood, tucked away in the meticulously curated gardens in the countryside of England, where I spent summers with my grandparents.
Truth be told, I don’t have much of a green thumb—okay, fine, I’ve killed every plant I’ve ever owned, but my grandmother, she loved to garden. I loved the peace they offered and the stories gardens seemed to tell. Together, we wandered through historic grounds throughout the UK, where every flower held history.
My imagination would run wild thinking about the lives that had played out in those gardens, children playing, romantic walks and talks between lovers, dreams whispered to the wind, the history of secrets they had quietly kept in the blooms through centuries on the very grounds that were beneath our feet.
This gardenia tree, wild and untamed, was different. It wasn’t part of a manicured landscape. It existed for itself, its beauty born of its freedom, and that made it all the more significant. It reminded me of the gardenias’ symbolic meaning: hope for a new day and the courage to leave the past behind.
I notice some wild, unkept roses a few steps away. In the spirit of smelling the roses, I reached to touch one of its delicate petals, a thorn from the bush snagged my hand.
“Ouch!” I yelped, the sharp sting bringing me back to the present. And yet, even this felt like part of the story.
I’ll be honest—trying to forget the past or ignore the pain has never worked for me. As a deep thinker, I tend to revisit old chapters, searching for answers and, perhaps to my own detriment, trying to find ways to avoid that same pain in the future.
What doesn’t kill you might make you stronger, and certainly makes you more interesting at parties, but it also leaves a scar—a reminder to stay vigilant. It makes you harder, more hesitant—a quiet erosion of self-trust. You gather more data, notice more patterns, red flags, and lessons learned. But in the process, you start thinking more and feeling less.
I stood there, hand stinging. It reminded me that my past—every heartache, every triumph, every misstep—is not something to be locked away behind a red door, buried deep within and forgotten, erased as if it never happened.
What if, this time, instead of trying to forget or rewriting the past into something more comforting, I let it live in a secret garden within my psyche?
Now imagine a hidden garden, it’s not a place you find on any map; it exists in a quiet corner of the mind, waiting patiently. This isn’t just any garden. It’s the secret landscape of your past, a refuge where memories, moments, and people you’ve loved (or barely survived) have been planted.
The roses, in all their beauty, came with thorns—not to harm, but to remind you that beauty and pain are often intertwined. The roses are lovely because of their thorns, not in spite of them. The thorns serve to keep us from staying too long in the past, pulling us back toward the path ahead. The roses are lovely because of their thorns, not in spite of them.
Each twist of ivy, each thorn-covered rose, holds fragments of a life lived fully, sometimes messily, but always with a pulse of its own. Here, memories flourish as you left them, serving as a testament to growth and resilience. The air carries the scent of something half-forgotten, a reminder of everything you’ve learned to let go.
It’s a sanctuary I alone hold the key to, visiting only when I choose to. I go here when I need to remember, to trace the path of who I was in order to understand who I’ve become.
In my secret garden, I don’t rewrite the past. Reliving the story through a fresh set of lenses often brings up more emotions than I often anticipate, and but returning to the rubble, the cobblestone path with the overgrown landscape leads me to my secret garden.
Walking through, I catch glimpses of old chapters—narratives I’ve outgrown, faded loves, triumphs, and heartbreaks. I don’t need to weed out the painful memories—they belong here. They coexist without judgment. The gardenia’s fragrance lingered, weaving itself into my memory like a dream from Morpheus himself.
“What hurts us is what heals us.”
- Paulo Coelho
The most intimate details are planted here so that I may allow the experience to live and flourish behind the gates, weather and stand the test of time. I’ll remember the beauty of the rose fondly while recognizing that the thorns are there to prevent me from going back there, once again.
The gardenias are the promise of hope, the moon’s light illuminating a path forward, even in the darkest of nights. The roses are the reminders of what I’ve overcome. And the garden itself? It’s the story, still unfolding, whispering to me to have the audacity to let it grow, to let it be wild, and to trust that the next chapter will bloom in its own time.
Letting the story unfold gave me my freedom and empowered me as the author of my life. I don't know the outcome. I don't manifest because I only know what I know today.
Everything great in my life has been a gift birthed from the depths of the unknown. Each one greater than the last because of my own limiting beliefs.
Characters come, characters go. The characters help you grow.
I am both the heroin and the villain. I am both the alchemist of greatness and my own demise. Two things can be true at once.
Don’t miss the story arc, trying to manufacture your outcome. The story arc, in all its untamed glory—its rises and falls, its moments of clarity and confusion—is where the magic is. Let it grow.
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Donna, I came to the comments to say that was a really nice read. Aaaand then that first comment happened 😬. WTF 🤣