What if unbecoming wasn’t linear—but petal by petal?
Sometimes the thing that opens us isn’t loud.
It’s slow. Reluctant. Cyclical.
Like grief. Like growth. Like dahlias.
Here’s what came through the morning after watching a time-lapse of one blooming.
An accompaniment for your own unfurling:
🎧 “Grow” by Frances
Let it play as you read—or as you sit with what’s rising.
Because sometimes, blooming is quiet. Soft. Brave.
Dahlias.
Have you ever seen the slow-motion bloom of one?
They don’t just open.
They unfurl.
Layer after layer—
an endless cycle of birth, death, and rebirth.
Some petals fall.
New petals rise.
Death and bloom. Grief and becoming.
All in the same breath.
Blooming from the inside out.
I think dahlias are one of the most extraordinary flowers.
I always have.
And now I understand why.
They can’t fight their nature.
They unfold.
Again and again.
Without timeline. Without force.
Each petal surrenders to the divine dance—
not a performance, but a pulse.
A remembering. A return.
Each transformation is quiet, inevitable, sacred.
The beauty they hold in one moment is gone the next—
not because it withers,
but because it becomes something else.
More open.
Wilder.
Freer.
What if we allowed ourselves the same?
To unfurl at our own pace.
To shed and shift,
to dance with what’s next—
without needing to know what it is.
Without needing to earn it.
Or rush it.
Or hold it still.
And when something falls away—
we don’t panic.
We compost.
We trust that what decays becomes the soil for what’s next.
What if we stopped fearing what beauty we’ll lose—
and started trusting the magic of what might arrive?
What might bloom from within if we were more like the dahlia?
More open.
Wilder.
Freer.
Which season are you in right now—
a petal falling,
a new one rising,
or the quiet pulse in between?
Or all at once, like me?
