Sunflowers

I don’t remember exactly when this happened but I remember exactly how I felt. 

It was just one of those ordinary days that God sometimes uses for extraordinary lessons. The kind you almost miss because you’re not really paying attention.

I was cleaning out a closet and found a painting. It had been tucked away for so long it was dusty. As I stood there and stared at it, I thought about why I loved it. I didn’t know the artist. It’s not some extraordinary work of art that would have collectors outbidding each other for it. Why did I even buy it if I wasn’t going to hang it up?

Sunflowers.

Tall. Unapologetic. Always facing the sun as if it had personally called their name.

For most of my life, I subconsciously believed that sunflowers were off-limits so I kept my distance. I admired them the way you admire something you know that deep down, you can’t actually have — like the Hope diamond. I told myself they were nice, beautiful even, but I never brought them home. I never chose them for myself. 

That probably sounds insane... They’re just flowers — bright, cheerful, my favorite reminder that sweater weather is just around the corner. But to me sunflowers belonged to someone else.

She loved sunflowers openly and without hesitation. They were in her home, on her clothes, as a gift on her birthday. Sunflowers were even woven into the way she existed in the world. Bold, loud, impossible to ignore. But loving her was complicated.

I used to view her as my safe space. My best friend. The one constant in my life that I knew no matter what was going on, I could turn to her.

When she became part of my story in a way that fractured my sense of safety, something was rewired inside me. I didn’t just lose trust, I lost permission. Permission to enjoy what she loved. Permission to find joy in anything that reminded me of her. Not without it costing me something.

Loving sunflowers felt like betrayal. Not only of myself now but the child who learned too early that affection came wrapped in conditions. Loving sunflowers felt like letting her have just one more piece of me.

The day I found the painting hiding in the closet something shifted. I don’t know if it was pure exhaustion and just finally being completely sick of letting her have control, or God’s incredible grace but either way I felt Him close. I felt Him in the quiet way He often shows up for me. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just... there.

Who told you that you weren’t allowed to love what I created?

Well, she did.

Trauma has a way of writing laws in invisible ink, and I had been living by them faithfully for the majority of my life — but on this day, I finally gave myself permission to love sunflowers. 

Not because all the brokenness in me was suddenly healed but because God was reminding me that my heart was never meant to live clenched. Closed off. Hardened. Cold. 

Openly loving sunflowers became a small act of rebellion toward my aunt. A declaration that my story didn’t end with a piece of what broke me.

Now, every time I choose sunflowers, I hear Him whisper it again:

You are allowed.