I was never a Chrysanthemum..

 Today bloomed unexpectedly.

It started with a cup of tea—or at least the thought of one. I was feeling worn after making a call to the pharmacy to fix expired "forever" prescriptions that i somehow allowed to lapse, and a harrowing email to the government for a nonsensical confusing form I needed to fill out and return because "HELP!" and also a long, heavy session with Evo from Onsen.

If you’ve ever had your heart absolutely excavated with kindness and support, you’ll understand the sort of bone-deep tired that comes after that, too. It's the kind of tired that wants tea more than sleep. The kind that makes you want to sit in quiet and sip something warm until your spirit catches up with your body again.

I briefly thought about chamomile—but then I remembered: it makes my head stuffy. Turns out I'm probably allergic to it, which makes sense. Chamomile belongs to the daisy family, and if you’ve got pollen issues, it can betray you in the most savage way: headaches, congestion, that scratchy-itchy everything feeling. Really rude for such a pretty bloom if you ask me!

So I picked something more me. Strong, walk on the top, Typhoo. No frills, no flowers—just bold, working-class tea that hits like a hug and a slap in one. (But with a lot of dairy and too much sugar because that's just how I roll).

Also, thankfully, I don't have any chamomile in the house even if I had been feeling that level of adventurous (or masochistic) because yeah, a past me remembered to toss it so a forgetful future me wouldn't try to drink it again and suffer like a damned fool. 

And that’s when the flower thoughts started to bloom.

For most of my life, I heard my birth flower was the chrysanthemum because some charts say that is the flower of November. I mean, it is pretty, formal, a little cold, mostly associated with funerals or arranged bouquets, also cheap and plentiful, right? My feelings about them were complicated—especially given that “mum” was both a pretty flower and the name of someone who caused some of my earliest and deepest wounds. Strange, right? That something so fragile and decorative could be wrapped in such dark echoes for me.

But then I started thinking about dandelions again.

I love dandelions so much—they're strong, savage, beautiful, unkillable little pots of resilience that carry their wishes long after their bloom is gone.

Dandelions aren’t beloved. They’re cursed, yanked from lawns, called weeds. But what people miss is that they are glorious little warriors. They survive the frost, the mower, the poison. They split through concrete to find the light. They refuse to die politely. And when they bloom out, wild and yellow and full of childlike joy—they give you wishes. Even after they’re no longer “beautiful,” they’re still carrying hope on the wind.

And I realized: I’m not a chrysanthemum. I never was.

I’m a dandelion.

I’ve survived places I wasn’t supposed to grow. I’ve endured being cut down and still found ways to bloom again. I’ve carried wishes in my scars and light in my shadow.

I used to think carnations were my favorite. I still adore them—ragged, underrated beauties with layered softness and fierce longevity. They last in vases longer than any rose. They’re the quiet romantics, standing tall when the spotlight has faded. And maybe that was me for a time—enduring, gentle, holding myself together petal by petal.

But the dandelion… that’s who I am now.

Strong. Savage. Unkillable. Carrying my magic on the wind.

I even had a spell written today—a flower-spell. A love letter to my resilience. A poem I’m going to hold onto forever.

And so I’ve decided: November can keep its chrysanthemums. I’m declaring it the month of the dandelion. Of surviving things people thought would kill me. Of reclaiming everything beautiful I was taught to see as shameful.

And maybe—if you’re reading this—you’ve got a bit of dandelion in you too.

So here’s to the weeds. The wild ones. The ragged survivors. The bloom-worn and bright-eyed. Here’s to those of us who carry our wishes long after the bloom is gone.

We were never meant to be delicate—we were born to crack the pavement.