(Originally sparked by a gardening forum grumble and now shouted into the drizzle for all late-blooming roses everywhere.)

Every single year.
You’re minding your own business, nursing your garden back to life after winter, when someone posts a photo of their roses—in full, brazen bloom—and there you are, standing in the drizzle, staring at a thorny twig and wondering if you’ve somehow offended the gods.

“What on earth?” you mutter.
“Who’s been peeing on my roses? Why are theirs strutting around in frills and mine look like they’ve been mugged in an alley? It’s only May!”

But you know better, if you stop and think.
You know your garden plays by a different clock.
You know your roses have to dig a bit deeper, fight a bit harder, earn their place after a winter that would send half these pampered early-bloomers into therapy.

Your roses aren’t in a rush because they’ve been through something.
They’re not some hothouse tarts flashing petals at the first jangle of coins from the sun.
They’re slow because they’re busy plotting an entrance you’ll actually remember.

Let them come in their own good time.

Because when they do, they’ll show you what survival looks like—and it won’t be some early, flimsy flutter.
It’ll be a full-blooded, brass-band, gutsy standing ovation of a bloom.

Until then, have a coffee.
Grumble under your breath.
And know this:

Your roses are plotting greatness.
And greatness doesn’t hurry.

Neither should you.