Ashes Fell, You Rose Anew

I don’t know why I keep writing about flowers, but I suppose they’ve always been easier to understand than people. Tonight, my thoughts drift to daylilies. Not because they’re my favorite—they’re not—but because they remind me of myself. Everyone sees their bright orange petals and assumes they’re simple, cheerful things. But if you look closely, really look, you notice the intricacies, the edges, the subtle shadows that betray a story of survival.

Daylilies are born to be admired from a distance. People notice their color but rarely step close enough to see the tiny veins running through each petal, or how their beauty only lasts for a day before fading. That’s the cruel irony of them. They seem so vibrant, but their life is fleeting, a burst of warmth that slips away almost unnoticed. And yet, every morning, they bloom again. No matter how quickly they wither, they keep returning, as if defying the very idea of fragility.

I think that’s why I see myself in them.

This journal has become a place where I sift through ashes—memories burned down to embers, fragments of a life I used to have. There were times I thought I’d been reduced to nothing but soot and scar tissue, a ghost of who I once was. I lost count of the days I felt like I’d never rise again, like I’d always be stuck in the wreckage of choices I made, or worse, choices I didn’t. But life doesn’t stop moving. Even in darkness, something small keeps pushing forward, like a stubborn sprout breaking through cold earth.

I remember one particular morning, not long after everything fell apart. I sat at the edge of my bed, staring at the floor because the weight of lifting my head felt unbearable. I’d been crying for hours, but the tears had dried, leaving that hollow ache behind. The room was dim, curtains drawn tight, air heavy with the scent of stale coffee and dust. And then I saw it—a single ray of sunlight slipped through the smallest gap in the curtain, landing right on the plant I’d been neglecting for weeks. Its leaves were dry, its soil cracked, yet somehow it was alive. And for the first time in months, I felt something close to hope.

Flowers are simple in their needs: light, water, time. They don’t ask for much, but if you give them care, they respond with quiet resilience. People aren’t so different, I suppose. I’d been starving myself of care for so long that I forgot how to grow. That little plant reminded me: life doesn’t demand perfection; it asks only for effort. I think that was the moment I decided I wasn’t ready to give up on myself yet.

So I began to water the plant. I started opening the curtains. And slowly, almost imperceptibly, I started tending to myself. A shower became a victory. A meal eaten at the table instead of in bed felt like a triumph. I learned to celebrate tiny milestones, each one a petal unfolding. Healing wasn’t pretty—it was clumsy and painful, more weeds than blossoms—but I was learning to bloom again.

Daylilies don’t last long, yet they always return. They remind me that beauty doesn’t have to be eternal to matter. I used to think being “whole” meant never breaking, but now I see it differently. Wholeness isn’t the absence of scars; it’s the courage to rise anyway, to create something beautiful from all the broken pieces.

Tonight, as I sit here scribbling these words, I have a vase of daylilies on my desk. They’re already beginning to wilt, their petals curling inward, but I don’t feel sad about it. Tomorrow, they’ll bloom again. So will I.

There’s something sacred in that cycle: ashes falling, life rising. I used to fear endings, but now I see them for what they are—an invitation to begin again. Like the daylily, I may fade, but I will rise. And one day, maybe I won’t just survive. I’ll flourish.

For now, though, I’m just grateful to have opened the curtains.