Four weeks ago, I was standing in my kitchen when a quiet, uncomfortable thought hit me:
I haven’t been single since I was eighteen.
Now, at twenty-six, I look back and realize that much of my late teens and early twenties were shaped by the relationships I was in. And while I’ve only been in two serious ones, they each left a profound impact on me—mentally, physically, and emotionally. And in many ways, they altered the course of my life.
My very first serious relationship began when I was nineteen and ended shortly after my twenty-second birthday. Two months later, feeling a bit restless at home with my parents, I downloaded Hinge. I didn’t expect to meet anyone, let alone someone memorable, but there was one man—seventeen years older—who was so persistent, I gave him a chance.
That decision led to a two-and-a-half-year courtship and a short-lived engagement. When the engagement finally ended in September 2024, I was shattered in ways that truly surprised me. I hadn’t realized how deeply my self-worth had started to orbit around him. The confidence I once effortlessly carried and the joy I had in simply being myself— suddenly all felt distant.
I remember thinking: Did I fall asleep at twenty-two and just now wake up at twenty-six, heartbroken and hollow?
I wasn’t eating—I lost twenty pounds in a month. I cried every day. I was barely sleeping, haunted by thoughts of him and the future we were supposed to have. It felt like something inside me was breaking, and if I didn’t make a change, I knew something dangerous could happen.
Fast forward to March 2025—and I’m beginning to feel like myself again. I’m noticing the sun. I’m smiling at songs. Slowly, I’m stepping into a new version of myself—one that’s rooted in healing.
Then, during a grocery run in late February, I saw a bouquet of roses. They were beautiful. I didn’t hesitate—I bought them for no other reason than the fact that I wanted them. For the first time in my life, I bought myself flowers.
At checkout, a kind sales associate asked who they were for. I smiled shyly and said, “They’re for me.” It felt strange, walking out with a bouquet just for myself. Until then, flowers had always come from men—admirers, boyfriends, partners. Never me.
When I arrived home, I carefully trimmed each stem and placed them in a red vase I’d gotten for my birthday. And so I went to bed not thinking too much about these flowers. But the next morning, something unusual happened. The flowers seemed to call to me—like they were asking to be acknowledged. So, I walked over, kissed their petals, and whispered, “You are beautiful. You are enough.”
And I kept doing that every morning. I also would sprinkle water gently on each bloom while speaking these words to them.
Those flowers lasted nearly three weeks. Almost a month! They simply refused to die.
And that’s when it clicked:
The reason so many of my relationships didn’t flourish—despite how much I gave, how much I sacrificed—was because I forgot to give to myself.
Sure, I took care of the outside. I stayed in shape. My hair was always done. My skin glowed. But what about the inside? The little things? The eternal things? The parts of me that needed nurturing, attention, love?
I was so busy giving my energy to other people that I neglected the parts of myself that needed the most care.
Talking to my flowers reminded me of the power of words. The right words. Not just for others—but for me. Words that make us feel alive.
Because here’s the truth: when we’re running on empty, when we feel hollow inside, it becomes so much easier to speak negatively—to ourselves and to those around us.
That week, I sent a photo of my flowers to my sisters in our group chat with the message:
“I’ve gotten flowers from a lot of admirers, but the ones I’ve given myself have lasted the longest.”
They showered the message with hearts.
They saw the pain I went through during the relationship, they witnessed the aftermath, and now they’re witnessing my healing.
So now, I’ve made it a ritual: I buy myself flowers.
And in doing so, I’m learning to cherish the things I give myself in a way I never did with the thing’s others gave me. It’s a slow process, but little by little, I’m coming home to myself.
And I never would’ve guessed that flowers would have anything to do with it.
