I talk to my flowers. Sunday school and science class both taught me that they listen and grow according to the kindness surrounding them. There is a predictability in flowers that I appreciate: dandelion sunbursts herald spring, followed closely by the hyacinth and tulips, and lilacs are never far behind. Then suddenly, the whole world is in bloom. Summer and fall have their own cascade of color with cone flowers and zinnias and all sorts of wild things too beautiful to be called weeds.
But some buds stay closed like a tight fist, and they lag far behind the others. I know it’s silly of me, but I worry about these late bloomers so far behind their peers. I check on them a little more often. Watch their progress. Are they feeling okay? Perhaps they are down to see everyone else blossoming, receiving praise, and feeling the warmth of the sun on their petals. I whisper to them, “You’re perfect just the way you are, little plant.”
And I have to ask, is it really the plant I’m talking to, or am I projecting myself onto those slow-to-open flowers? I know the pain of blooming late. It’s excruciating to see everyone else flourish while you struggle. I feel like I was a late bloomer in most things.
In elementary school, I perfected slipping tests into my desk before anyone could see them to hide the score. I pretended I didn’t care, or that I didn’t study to save face in front of friends. Truth is, I usually studied twice as hard as everyone I knew, but only got half as far. School was never easy, thanks to a brain that couldn’t focus and chose to turn things upside down and inside out. Things did get easier, and I found my stride. But it took me until I was 27 to graduate from college, and by then, I had friends who had finished PhDs. There was no sense of accomplishment when I held that hard-won degree; I was just relieved it was finally over. I never posted pictures or mentioned graduating anywhere on social media. I was too embarrassed by how long it had taken me and didn’t want to draw attention to that fact.
I was never particularly good at sports, but I loved them, so I showed up and played anyway. I became a very good cheerleader for my friends and teammates, but rarely got to join them on the podium. Senior year, I was awarded the “Unsung Hero Award” for being kind and uplifting, but the acknowledgement felt more like an insult. I wasn’t “good enough” for a real award, so I got a made-up one.
In hindsight, I can see what an honor it was to have a “made-up” award, especially when it was made for me. I wasn’t an ideal athlete, but boy, did I show up! What a life lesson, now that I’m out of the social experiment of high school, no one cares how fast you are, but how diligent you are, and how easy and pleasant someone is to be around.
And as for elementary school (and middle school and high school), while I still bear the scars of struggling so much, it made me an amazing teacher because I knew a million different ways to teach a concept because I had to learn it a million different ways to make it stick, and every student needs something different. And, not to brag, but I was more accepting of learning differences, knew what to do, and (more importantly) what not to do to help my students eventually blossom. Because I took that long, windy road to my degree, I did things friends never had the chance to do. I spent time doing missionary work, I worked in a bakery full-time decorating cakes for over a year—that was a fantastic job—and I never would have had it if I hadn’t taken a break from school.
There is a lot of pain being a late bloomer, there is no denying that, but there is a lot of beauty too. You learn patience and empathy and resilience as you overcome setback after setback. Your skill set has both depth and breadth because it took you so much longer to build it, and you’re less likely to forget what you learned because you invested so much time into it.
Now that I think about it, I am definitely projecting onto the flowers. But flowers are predictable and kind, and good listeners to boot. But they have something to teach us too: it doesn’t matter when you bloom or when you’re friends do, we all eventually blossom and are lovely in our own way and for our own reasons. Flowers bloom—no comparison or competition needed. They bloom when ready and are just as beautiful as their peers.
So here’s to you, late bloomer, I promise, you’re perfect as you are. Your time will come. Just focus on yourself and bloom when you’re ready—the time frame matters less than you think it does.
by Alaina V. Fletcher 
by Cheryl Donely 
