Monday, Florals, and the Imperfect Blooms We Carry Into the World
Jun 01, 2026
Some Mondays arrive with a little marching band.
Not a full parade, necessarily. Nobody is tossing confetti from the rooftops or handing you a fresh notebook and a flawless plan for your life.
But there is a little drumbeat.
A sense of okay, here we go.
A feeling that maybe, just maybe, you are ready to meet the world head on.
You have thoughts. You have intentions. You have coffee. You have at least one reasonably good idea about who you are and what you are doing here.
And then you try to get dressed.
Which is where the whole operation begins to wobble.
Because suddenly the woman who was ready to stride into Monday with purpose and emotional maturity is standing in front of the closet thinking, Absolutely not. Not that. Not that either. Who bought this? Was it me? Why did I think this color was going to change my life?
There is a very particular kind of vulnerability that comes from wanting to feel capable but not being able to find anything to wear.
It is not really about the clothes.
Well. It is a little about the clothes.
But underneath that, it is about the strange gap between how we feel on the inside and how we are asked to present ourselves to the outside world.
Inside, I may be brave.
Outside, I may be wearing the same soft pants I have worn for three emotionally significant days in a row.
Inside, I may feel creative and strong and ready to make decisions.
Outside, my shirt may be clinging in a way that suggests it has unresolved issues with me. This morning, I made a painting that understood. It was a page of flowers. Loose, imperfect, playful. The kind of painting where you are not trying to prove anything. You are just letting color move around and seeing what wants to happen.
A few of the flowers looked fabulous.
They had personality. They had shape. They had presence. They seemed to know exactly why they had shown up on the page.
And then there were the others.
The ones that just kind of sat there.
Not tragic. Not ruined. Not beyond repair.
Just… blobby.
Soft little floral question marks.
Petals that had lost their way. Centers that looked unsure of their responsibilities. Stems that seemed to be quietly hoping no one would ask too much of them. And honestly?
I could identify.
Because some days I am the fabulous flower. I know my colors. I hold my shape. I take up space with reasonable confidence and some days I am the blob. Still on the page. Still part of the painting. Still technically a flower, perhaps, depending on how generous we are feeling. But definitely not at my most defined.
Monday has a way of asking us to become the polished version before we have fully caffeinated and remembered how to be a person.
It expects crisp edges.
Clear plans.
Matching socks.
A face that says, Yes, I have reviewed the calendar and am emotionally prepared for civilization.
But real life is much more like watercolor.
Some things bloom beautifully.
Some things bleed into places you did not expect.
Some colors separate in interesting ways.
Some shapes become exactly what you hoped.
And some sit there like a damp little mystery.
The trick, maybe, is not to throw away the whole page because one flower went rogue. The trick is to step back. To notice what is working. To let the fabulous flowers be fabulous without demanding that every other part of the painting perform at the same level.
To give the blobs a little dignity.
Maybe they need another layer.
Maybe they need ink.
Maybe they need to dry before you decide what they are.
Maybe they are not mistakes at all, but evidence that your hand was moving, your imagination was awake, and you were willing to begin.
That counts.
Especially on a Monday.
Especially when the world feels loud and the closet feels judgmental.
Especially when part of you is ready to go out there and part of you would very much like to remain tucked safely behind the curtain with a cup of coffee and no restrictive pants.
And then, because Mondays are apparently committed to keeping the plot interesting, the day shifted.
Dinner with friends helped me perk up a bit.
There is something about sitting across from people who make you laugh, people who let you show up exactly as you are, that can gently rearrange the furniture inside your chest. Not in an exciting, plot-twist sort of way. More like turning the page and finding a quiet chapter break right when you needed one.
A little fresh air.
A little conversation.
A little reminder that I do not have to solve my entire life before my coffee gets cold.
By evening, I was still tired, but in a softer way.
The kind of tired that says, “You made it through the day. You were a little blobby in places, but you made it.” And now I’m setting my alarm to go to the nature center in the morning, to walk before I jump into the booth.
That feels important.
Before the headphones.
Before the manuscript.
Before the hours of careful attention and breath and pacing.
But not before the coffee.
A walk.
Trees.
Birdsong, maybe.
A trail under my feet.
A little time to remember that I am a body before I am a voice. A person before I am a storyteller. A woman who needs air and light and movement before she asks herself to perform.
Like the rest of June, this week is already full to the brim. I’ve started narrating a nonfiction book titled How Writing Works by Roslyn Petelin.
Needless to say, I’m enjoying the read.
There is something wonderful about being handed a book that lives in the world of words, craft, language, and meaning. A book about writing, read by someone who is also writing, who is also painting flowers that sometimes behave and sometimes do not, who is also trying to understand how all of these creative threads keep weaving themselves into one life.
And I’m so thankful Dreamscape called me up for this one.
Truly.
There are moments in this work where gratitude catches me off guard.
One minute I am just moving through the next practical thing, checking the schedule, prepping the manuscript, warming up my voice, making sure the booth is ready.
And then suddenly it hits me.
I get to do this.
I get to read books into being.
I get to sit in a small quiet space and turn words on a page into breath and sound.
That is not a small thing.
And today, as if Monday had not already been enough of an emotional carnival ride, my first copy of The Art of Returning came in the mail.
My book.
In my hands.
I feel so accomplished.
So proud.
The cover looks so beautiful, and I’m pleased with the format. At least my worst fear didn’t come true. There were no surprise blank pages waiting to humble me. The artwork I used for each chapter stayed where it was supposed to stay.
Can we just pause for that?
Because anyone who has wrestled a book into existence knows that by the time the proof copy arrives, you are no longer simply hoping it looks good.
You are hoping the formatting gremlins did not throw a tiny party inside the file.
You are hoping the cover didn’t print weird.
You are hoping the pages didn’t do something mysterious.
You are hoping the art didn’t wander off like an unsupervised toddler in a toy store.
But there it was.
Beautiful.
Real.
Held in my hands after all the doubt, all the revisions, all the late nights, all the moments when I wondered whether I was making something meaningful or just making a mess.
And maybe that is why the flower painting felt so fitting today.
A few fabulous blooms.
A few uncertain blobs.
A finished page anyway.
A finished book anyway.
A Monday anyway.
Because this day was definitely a roller coaster of emotions.
The morning version of me was standing in front of the closet wondering how a person can own clothes and still have nothing to wear.
The creative version of me was painting flowers and relating deeply to the ones that lost their shape.
The social version of me perked up over dinner with friends.
The narrator version of me felt grateful for good work waiting in the booth.
The author version of me held her book in her hands and thought, I did this.
And isn’t that what makes us human?
We ride the highs and lows, sometimes all in one day.
We are confident and uncertain.
Grateful and overwhelmed.
Proud and tired.
Ready to take on the world and also interested in canceling our entire relationship with pants that have buttons.
We bloom.
We blob.
We begin again.
So here is my Monday permission slip, for me and maybe for you too:
You do not have to feel fully formed to begin.
You do not have to love the outfit.
You do not have to be the best flower on the page.
You can be bright in one corner and uncertain in another.
You can be brave and blobby at the same time.
You can meet the world head on with one fabulous petal, one questionable stem, and a whole lot of honest color.
And maybe that is enough.
Maybe that is more than enough.
Maybe that is what showing up actually looks like.
Not polished.
Not perfect.
Just present.
A little wilted in places.
A little wonderful in others.
Still blooming anyway.
Jenn
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