An Introduction

I love flowers. Always have and always will. I was the girl who spent an hour during recess picking buttercups and clovers from the soccer field instead of actually playing soccer. I was the girl who went to prom without a date but with a corsage of white and pink roses on her wrist. I am the girl who spends her free moments between university classes sitting by the tulips, surrounded by fallen cherry blossoms. I am the girl who buys herself lavender and eucalyptus during summer farmers’ markets. It was only fitting that my college essay was about flowers.

I ruminated on what flower I would write about for the entire summer leading up to my senior year of high school. I was having a hard time deciding which flower I would utilize to describe myself. I wrote an entire essay about baby’s breath, a tiny but mighty flower that symbolizes devotion and ever-lasting love. I scrapped that essay because baby’s breath tends to be a supporting flower to roses, and I wanted to highlight myself and not just what I can do for others. From sunflowers to carnations to gardenias, I tried them all. It felt like I had picked all the flowers from the garden and was now left with an empty field. But empty fields are exactly where coneflowers bloom. I felt a calling to search for wildflowers that were native to St. Louis and that is where I first discovered the coneflower.

This flower changed my life, which might seem a little dramatic to say although it is true. I smile every time I see them growing between paths on my college campus. I want to have a bouquet of them for my graduation photos in two years. They have become more to me than just a flower from an essay. They guide me through life. They remind me of who I am and where I come from. They encourage me to continue growing wildly into the person I am meant to become. This is why my blog is titled The Coneflower Chronicles. This blog is a narration of my life story. It is a documentation of who I am at my core. It is a combination of all my passion, love, faith, failures, stumbling blocks, lessons, and victories. Who knows what kind of person I might continue to grow into with a little sunlight, water, and soil? I hope you will stick around to find out!

I have attached an unedited copy of my college essay below. I also want to say thank you to Mrs. Shortt who helped me perfect this essay and who continues to influence my writing for the better. You can never know the full power of a college essay.

I am Not a Delicate Little Flower

Blue and purple – the colors of my childhood. The colors of my first pacifier, my dad’s shirts, the ribbons my mother put in my ponytails every school day, and (most importantly) the color of my grandmother’s hydrangeas. The sight of hydrangeas always reminds me of my grandmother’s words.

“Don’t you want to be a delicate little flower?”

Not the words I wanted to hear from my grandmother.

I love my grandmother, but she wanted to be like her hydrangeas. Gentle and graceful and dainty. Quiet and perfect and refined.

But I am none of those things.

I am more like an echinacea prupuea, more commonly known as a coneflower. As flowers go, they are not the ones that lovers purchase on Valentine’s Day or divas collect after opening night; they are wildflowers that are native to St. Louis, my hometown. They grow freely and in almost any condition. They are perennials, which means that they die in the winter, but come back in the spring. They provide support for bees and butterflies and are used in herbal remedies for inflammation and therapeutic effects. They are bright and vibrant and beautifully imperfect. They are me.

I try to live life freely. Rendezvous with friends are filled with late night drives and midnight ice cream. Directing my first play was a decision made five minutes before the signup sheet was due. It felt like I was flying when I jumped off a cliff on our last vacation. I grow freely and sometimes chaotically – like a coneflower.

I have braved many storms. Math classes are battlegrounds where I claw my way through the trenches of quadratic equations. Last minute adjustments to my school’s newspaper articles happen at dawn. My inner strength is tested when stress threatens to bury me. I rise from the depths like a coneflower.

I dedicate myself to the people in my life. My lap has held children as I soothe them and promise that their parents will pick them up soon. My car is where I listen to my siblings’ struggles. My navy school shirt has been dampened by friends crying on my shoulder after a hard test. I am a pillar of strength for others – like a coneflower.

I crave helping other people. The butterflies in my stomach do not stop me from advocating on Capitol Hill for people with cystic fibrosis like my uncle. There is always ibuprofen in my backpack for when my friends have headaches. Whenever my mother gets a sunburn, I am the one to apply aloe to her burns. I soothe – like a coneflower.

I am unapologetically myself. My favorite vivid red dress comes out every holiday. My fingers, ears, and neck are adorned by the same silver jewelry pieces because they were gifts from loved ones. Every note or letter someone has ever given me can be found in my bedroom. My laugh is way too loud and I snort whenever something is extremely funny. Sometimes, my family hears me dancing around my room. I am colorful and lively, like a coneflower.

I have never been a hydrangea. I am messy and passionate and loving. I am bright and bold and strong. When I look back, I am proud of how I would respond to that question. I would always yell “NO!”. I continue to stick by that because I am more than the delicate little flower that my grandmother wanted me to be. I am beautifully myself, like a coneflower.