Blossoming Into Motherhood After a Long Winter
There have been many seasons over the past few years where I wasn’t sure what would grow from the soil of my life. Some seasons felt vibrant and expansive. Others felt marked by grief, uncertainty, waiting, and loss.
Like many women, I have quietly carried the heartbreak of miscarriage and the complicated ache of wondering if motherhood would arrive for me in the way and timing I had hoped. And yet, slowly and faithfully, life kept moving.
Over time, I’ve learned that healing rarely happens all at once. More often, it unfolds the way spring does — gently, quietly, beneath the surface long before we can fully see it. Tiny signs of life begin to emerge after what felt like an endless winter.
Today, I’m grateful to share that I am expecting a baby boy. 💙
This next chapter feels deeply sacred to me. It also means my presence here may soften and shift for a while as I step more fully into family, rest, and the profound transformation that motherhood brings. Bud & Blossom has always been rooted in real life, healing, and honest seasons — and this season is asking me to slow down and listen closely to what matters most.
For anyone walking through grief, infertility, miscarriage, disappointment, or unanswered prayers: my heart is with you. I know how lonely and disorienting those seasons can feel. But I also know this — nature reminds us again and again that winter is not the end of the story. Beneath even the coldest soil, life is still preparing itself to bloom.
Spring eventually comes. And sometimes, after long periods of waiting, life surprises us with blossoms we thought might never arrive.
I wrote the following poem during this season of pregnancy, reflection, and quiet becoming.
Blossoming Into Motherhood After a Long Winter
The earth is waking again.
You can feel it in the soft light,
in the quiet stirring beneath the soil,
in the brave little blossoms
opening their hands to the sky.
I have always loved this part of the story —
how life begins so gently.
A bud, a breath, a tiny heartbeat
learning the rhythm of the world.
Inside me, another beginning.
A small promise unfolding
the way spring does —
slowly, faithfully,
Stitch by stitch..
And everywhere I look
I see the fingerprints of God.
In the curve of a branch,
in the patience of rain,
in the way the sun returns
after even the longest night.
Still, I know the other side of the garden.
I have seen the leaves fall,
felt the sharp edge of loss,
watched beloved things
return to the quiet earth.
But creation keeps whispering its secret:
Nothing in nature is ever wasted.
Decay feeds the soil.
Grief softens the heart.
Winter gathers strength for spring.
And so the blossoms return —
every year, every time —
fragile and fearless,
testifying that life
is always beginning again.
I hold that promise now,
in the small miracle growing within me,
and in the wide green world outside.
God is here in it all —
in the endings,
in the openings,
in the tender, holy cycle
that carries us forward
from seed
to blossom
to seed again.
