🌾 When the Garden Feels Heavy

There’s a rhythm to flower farming that most people never see. It’s easy to imagine the armloads of blooms — the bright dahlias, fragrant stock, and the overflowing buckets that make their way to weddings and markets. But beneath all that beauty lies the part of the work that no one posts about — the quiet, gritty, heavy part that comes at the end of the season.

We’re here now. The dahlias have browned, the nights dip below freezing, and the flower field is slowly being put to rest. Every day is a list of “lasts” — the last of the harvesting, the last of the compost turning, the last of the warm sun on your back. We’ve been cutting down rows, clearing beds, spreading compost, and tucking peony roots and bulbs into the soil for their long winter sleep. The roses are next — each one trimmed, covered, and whispered a little promise: “see you in spring.”

“frost-mas” 25’ - 10/25/2025

It’s a season of letting go, but it’s also a season that asks for more than I sometimes have to give. The work is slower but heavier. The mental load too. Between job searching, planning ahead for next year, and trying to balance motherhood, business, and life — it’s a lot. This time of year always asks for faith in the unseen. You’re planting for beauty you won’t see for months, investing in a dream that only lives in the quiet corners of your imagination right now.

And honestly? That’s hard. It’s hard to live one or two seasons ahead when you’re already running on empty. Flower farming has a way of doing that — forcing you to always think of what’s next, what needs ordering, what needs changing, what needs rest. And sometimes, I wish I could just pause — just stand in the field as it is, without rushing toward what will be.

But that’s the quiet lesson fall keeps teaching me: not everything beautiful happens in full bloom. Growth happens underground, in the stillness, in the letting go. The peonies don’t question whether they’ll bloom again. They rest. They trust the process.

So maybe this season is about that — about trusting what’s happening beneath the surface. About learning that heaviness isn’t a sign of failure; it’s a sign of transition. It’s the body and the heart catching up to the pace of change.

Lately, I’ve been reminding myself that even in the fading and the quiet, there’s purpose. The composting, the pruning, the clearing — it’s all preparation for what’s next. The same way rest prepares the soul for new growth.

So I’m leaning into slower rhythms. Early sunsets, muddy boots, cozy evenings with tea and notebooks. Dreaming in small ways again, without forcing the big picture. Letting the field and my heart rest together.

Because maybe this is what the garden has been trying to teach me all along:
Even when it feels heavy, even when it looks bare — this, too, is part of the bloom. 🌾

Written from the fields at Bede’s Blooms + Co., as we tuck another season to rest.

— Alex

My field helper these days