She was a weed.

Not chosen,

not planned,

not purchased from a nursery

with careful hands and pride-filled soil.

She was scattered,

tossed by wilderness winds

into ground that was cracked,

unwanted,

unprepared.

Still, she grew.

Still, she bloomed.

Not to boast of herself,

but to whisper:

“I am here. I matter. Even weeds bring color to the field.”

She prayed someone would notice,

not her name,

not her label,

but her courage,

her beauty.

She did not last forever.

Her petals browned,

her stem bowed low.

But her hope remained:

That before her final breath

someone might see

she was never “just” a weed,

she was a life that reached for the sun to shine truth into her life.

There’s something about weeds that I have always resonated with.

They aren’t planted with intention. No one drives to the nursery, picks them out, and tucks them into rich soil with care and plans to enjoy their blooms. They’re tossed into the earth by chance, the wind carrying their seeds into cracks where no one meant for life to take root.

Yet, they grow. Against the odds, they push through gravel and clay. They bloom where no one expected beauty to appear.

I’ve often felt like that weed, unplanned, overlooked, even unwanted. I wasn’t rooted in the kind of soil people take pride in. I wasn’t carefully tended. But still, I grew. Still, I reached for the sun. Still I was here.

In my growing, I’ve prayed that someone would see me, not as something disposable, not as a burden, but as a life that carries its own beauty and worth.

Because here’s the truth: weeds may not come with a price tag from the greenhouse, but they have a tenacity, a resilience, that no manicured garden flower can match. They remind us that beauty can be found in the most unexpected places.

I was a weed.

But weeds still bloom.

Maybe that is enough.

Maybe just before her final moments she will realize she is not a weed but a wildflower.