Friday Exhale: Trusting the Bloom
On pruning, patience, and the promise of new blooms
Some seasons ask us to bloom.
Others ask us to trust.
All of my Knock Out roses looked knocked out.
The summer sun had done its work. The blooms were faded, the leaves tired, and some of the rose petals appeared burnt to a crisp.
So I spent the afternoon in the garden, pruning.
Snip.
Snip.
Snip.
One stem at a time.
Gardening has taught me that sometimes growth looks like cutting back.
As I trimmed away spent blooms and brittle branches, I wasn’t worried. I wasn’t wondering if the roses would bloom again.
I knew they would.
More blossoms will come.
More bursts of color.
More intoxicating fragrance drifting through the yard on warm evenings.
On this pruning day, a little girl and her daddy stopped by.
Among all the blooms that were fading, one stem remained perfect, holding five beautiful roses.
I clipped it and handed it to her.
She accepted it with both hands and smiled.
As they walked away, she carried the flowers carefully, her head bent down to smell them again and again.
I watched until they disappeared down the sidewalk.
The roses have taught me many lessons over the years.
Growth is not a straight line.
Bloom.
Rest.
Prune.
Begin again.
As I work in the garden, I often find myself talking to the plants.
Not long conversations.
Just a few simple words.
Thank you.
Thank you for growing.
Thank you for offering yourself to me.
Thank you for being.
Perhaps it sounds silly.
But there is something beautiful about pausing long enough to appreciate what has already been given rather than focusing only on what comes next.
The roses do not bloom all year.
The flowers fade.
The leaves fall.
Yet none of this makes them any less worthy of gratitude.
Their beauty is not measured by how long they bloom.
Their value is not determined by whether they are at their peak.
They simply grow.
They offer what they can.
And when their season changes, they prepare quietly for the next one.
Standing in my garden with pruning shears in hand, I was reminded that trust is a form of wisdom.
The roses are not afraid of being cut back.
They do not mourn the blooms that have faded.
They simply continue.
Rooted.
Steady.
Preparing for what comes next.
And perhaps there is something else they teach us.
Beauty is meant to be shared.
A bloom does not know whose day it might brighten.
A flower does not know who will stop to admire it.
It simply opens.
Offering what it has.
On this particular afternoon, one little girl carried home five roses.
The rest remained in the garden, preparing for another season of blooms.
Both felt like gifts.
Perhaps there is something for us to learn from that.
When life feels a little wilted.
When a season has been especially hot.
When we find ourselves cutting away what no longer serves us.
Maybe we can trust that new blooms will come.
Maybe we can offer ourselves the same grace we offer the garden.
And maybe, before rushing toward what is next, we can pause for a moment and say:
Thank you.
Thank you for growing.
Thank you for offering yourself.
Thank you for being.
Before you head into the weekend, I invite you to reflect on two questions:
What has someone shared with you that continues to bloom in your life?
And where are you being asked to trust that growth is happening, even if all you can see right now is the pruning?
This is our exhale.
As you settle into this week’s Friday Exhale, I invite you to listen to one of my favorite guitarists, Jamie Dupuis.
His music has a way of slowing me down and reminding me to savor the moment.
I find it soul-intoxicating.
I hope you do too.
Author’s Note
If this touched something inside you, I’d be honored to hear your reflections.
Whether you’ve lived through chaos, rebuilt your voice, or carried wounds no one else could see, your story matters. Sharing reminds us that we are not alone in the slow, powerful work of becoming.
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With gratitude,
Chellie 🩷
If you have been journeying with these Friday Exhales, you may also enjoy my This Is My Exhale books—gentle reflections on nature, healing, slowing down, and learning to breathe again.