When I first began dating my now ex-husband, every time he would pick me up at my house for a date, he would greet me at my front door with a single rose in hand, one which he had picked from his rose bush in front of his house and give it to me. 

I remember thinking that it was even more romantic for him to do that than to buy me a rose at the store. I would think about the time that it took for him to grab a pair of scissors, cut the rose, bring it inside and wrap the end of the stem in a damp paper towel and then cover it in tinfoil, as he always did. I’ve always been a person who likes the thought and gestures behind a gift more than the actual gift. So this practice meant a lot to me. 

After we were married and had become parents, we had settled into the routine aspects of life. I was often feeling pretty neglected in the romantic gestures department. I once asked him if he remembered how he would pick a rose from the bush out front and surprise me with it when he was courting me. I hoped this reminder would encourage him to do little things that would make me feel that special once again. 

Instead, he said something rather thoughtless by replying, “Well, I married you, so now the whole bush is yours. You can pick your own roses anytime you want.”  It was clear that the romantic man who wooed me was not the man I was married to. And it was clear that he didn’t understand it was never about the roses, but about the gesture and the thought he had once put into it. 

For years after that, I never liked the rose bush in the front of the house. It was a thorny reminder to me of what once was and of the hurtful words that I’d associate with that bush going forward. 

Years later, after my husband left the home and the bush and I remained, I still didn’t appreciate the beauty of its blooms, and I was surprised it had even lasted this long, as I’d never once done anything to keep it alive. Many times I thought about removing the darn thing altogether. What should have brought me joy only brought me bitterness and resentment. 

Today, I noticed a new bloom. For the first time in 20 years, I saw its beauty in a new light. I saw the rose as the strong and sturdy flower that was still standing and blooming after years of being unloved and unappreciated. I saw that her beauty never changed, only my ability to see it and appreciate it. 

I saw that the rose was like me.  Strong, hearty, independent, and inarguably beautiful even through years of harsh treatment and neglect. 

I will not cut her flowers, as my ex had done all those years ago. I will keep her rooted into the ground to grow and flourish like the beautiful warrior that she is. I will appreciate the endurance she has shown me, and every time I walk past her, I will tell her how much I love her and how beautiful she is. She should never have had to go that long without hearing it. 

Neither should I. And neither should you.