The Story Behind the Botanical Garden Collection

This past weekend I went to the Smith College Botanical Garden with a friend. It was still gray outside, the kind of late winter light that feels heavy and endless in New England. I have been feeling that heaviness too. Not dramatic, not crisis-level, just the slow drag of winter that settles into your shoulders and makes everything feel harder than it should. We stepped into the Tropical Room and it felt like my entire nervous system exhaled. The air was warm and humid like a soft sauna. My glasses fogged up immediately. Everything was green and alive and unapologetically growing. For the first time in months, I felt my body unclench.

We found a bench and spent a few hours sketching. Nothing elaborate. Just leaves and light and the curve of stems reaching toward the ceiling. It filled up my cup in a way I had not realized I needed. There was something deeply comforting about being surrounded by things that were growing steadily, without urgency. The tropical plants were not performing. They were simply existing in the right conditions, stretching toward warmth. I realized how much winter had narrowed my world, and how quickly the right environment can widen it again.

That afternoon stayed with me. It reminded me that growth does not always look dramatic. Sometimes it looks like stepping into warmth after months of cold. Sometimes it looks like choosing to sit and sketch instead of scroll. Sometimes it looks like small, repeated acts of tending that eventually turn into something lush and alive. That is the heart of this spring collection.

Small steps grow wild gardens. I have seen that in my own life this winter. The days I went for a short walk even when I did not feel like it. The emails I answered. The boundaries I practiced setting. None of them felt transformative in the moment, but taken together they are building something. Gardens are not built in a day. They are built in accumulated care.

What you water will bloom. In the Tropical Room, every plant was thriving because it was being given what it needed consistently. The right humidity. The right light. The right protection from frost. It made me think about attention. Where we place it. What we feed with our time and energy. We cannot water everything. When we water comparison or criticism, those grow too. When we water hope or rest or connection, those begin to expand. Spring is an invitation to notice what we are watering.

Bloom at your own pace.

Not every plant in that greenhouse was flowering. Some were all leaves. Some were still pushing up new shoots. None of them looked behind. None of them seemed concerned about the plant next to them. Some seasons are for rooting. That is not a failure. That is preparation. Winter can feel like stagnation, but often it is quiet root work happening out of sight.

Plant hope anyway.

The act of planting is inherently hopeful. You press something small and unremarkable into soil and trust that something will come of it. Even after a long winter. Even when you cannot see immediate change. Hope is not naive optimism. It is the willingness to keep tending.

Plant kindness.

Harvest courage. I am learning that courage does not grow well in harsh soil. It grows where there is gentleness. Where mistakes are allowed. Where effort counts. When we treat ourselves with the same care we would offer a struggling friend, we create the conditions for bravery to take root.

This collection, was born out of that afternoon in the Tropical Room. Out of the warmth on my skin and the quiet joy of sketching beside a friend. Out of the realization that sometimes what we need is not a reinvention, but a greenhouse. A place to warm up. A place to breathe. A place to remember that growth is still happening, even when it has been a long winter.

If this season has felt heavy, I hope this collection feels like stepping into humidity after cold air. I hope it feels like a reminder that you are still growing. And I hope it invites you to tend to your own small steps, trusting that they are becoming something wilder and more beautiful than you can see right now.