False Spring, Root Work & Necessary Pruning

There’s something about a false spring.

A few warm days. The light shifts. The air softens. You can almost believe winter is over — but you know better. There’s still cold ahead. Still work to do underground.

That’s what this season has felt like for me.

I’ve been quiet — not because nothing is happening, but because everything is.

Most days begin early. A slow morning routine. Breakfast. Devotional. A workout to ground myself before the day begins. Then I step into work — often stretching into PST hours — learning, growing, giving my very best in this season of my career.

After dinner and family time, I usually head right back into another layer of work — timelines for brides, administrative details, sourcing, planning, dreaming. Two or three evenings a week are spent building the foundation for weddings you won’t see until months from now.

And in the margins? We’re building out a proper workshop in the basement. Starting seeds. Mapping garden plots. Preparing for the growing season. Planning every detail for my 2026 brides (I truly cannot wait for this year’s weddings — they are going to be so beautiful).

But beneath all of that activity, something even more important has been happening.

Reflection.

This has been a huge season of asking hard questions about the business.

What are we keeping?
What are we letting go of?
What is actually worth the labor, time, and energy it requires?

If something is not profitable, life-giving, or aligned — it’s being cut.

Not dramatically. Not emotionally.
But intentionally.

Just like pruning a plant before the growing season, I’ve been trimming what taxes the roots so the right things can flourish. Some offerings are shifting. Some systems are simplifying. Some things are ending so better things can grow.

And in that pruning, I’ve also rediscovered something tender.

Herbalism.

Long before Bede’s Blooms became what it is today, it began as Bede Botanical + Co. That is still our LLC name — because this business was originally founded on medicinal health and healing through herbs and botanicals. Flowers were never just aesthetic to me. They were medicine. Story. Stewardship. Restoration.

Somewhere along the way, other demands crowded that quiet love out.

And in this season of reflection, I’ve been reclaiming it.

Studying herbs again. Reading. Remembering why I started.

I’ve also been leaning deeply into my Scandinavian roots — reading, slowing down, embracing hygge in a way that feels grounding and healing. Candles lit in the early dark mornings. Warm meals made slowly. Creating beauty at home simply because it nourishes the nervous system.

It has been restorative in a way I didn’t know I needed.

There is a different kind of creativity that comes from rest. From protecting your nervous system. From being present with your family. From strengthening your body. From learning and stretching and choosing to build slowly instead of chaotically.

I’m not interested in doing more.
I’m interested in doing what matters — exceptionally well.

This quiet season has been about tending the roots:

Our faith.
Our health.
Our home.
Our heritage.
Our brides.
Our garden.
Our work.
Our vision.

Because when the real spring comes — I want to be ready.

And speaking of spring… as the garden plans solidify and the seeds begin to sprout, I’m reminded that there are only a couple of spring and summer flower subscriptions remaining. I’m intentionally keeping things smaller this year — more curated, more sustainable, more aligned with the kind of work I want to create.

If you’ve been considering it, now would be the time.

Photo: Liv Schafer Photography

If you’ve been in a quiet season too, maybe it’s not stagnation. Maybe it’s preparation.

There is so much beauty ahead.
I can feel it.

Thank you for being here — even in the quiet.

As we tend the roots,

Alex

🌾 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