The Roses in My Garden

#MotherhoodtoMenopause

Outside, winter still lingers. The earth lies quiet beneath its frost-laden veil, the garden asleep in a hush of waiting. But though the world is bare, I am already dreaming—dreaming of the warmth of the soil beneath my hands, of tender green shoots pushing their way toward the light, of the first unfurling of petals kissed by the breath of spring. The garden is never truly gone, only resting, only gathering its strength to bloom again. And so, too, am I.

Just a little bit of my garden

Even now, while the cold air clings to the windowpanes, I sit by the wood stove and turn my thoughts to the roses. The ones that have stood with me through the years, through every season of my life, and the ones I will plant when the ground softens once more. I can almost smell them, rich and full in the evening air—the ancient roses, the healers, the ones whose petals hold stories whispered by the wise women who came before me.

The Hush of the Rose Garden

There is a hush in my garden at twilight, a soft sigh as petals unfurl beneath the evening sky. The scent of my roses linger—velvet and honeyed, rich with memory and meaning. These are not the fragile roses of fleeting beauty, bred for spectacle alone. These are the ancient ones—the roses that have stood steadfast through centuries, their roots tangled deep in history, their petals steeped in the wisdom of time.

I walk among them, trailing my fingers along their thorned stems, listening to the whispers of the wind through their leaves, inhaling their soothing perfumes, each a little different, but together a symphony of scent. These roses—the Apothecary’s Rose, the fragrant Damasks, the White Rose of York, the beautiful Centifolias, Moss roses and my favorite, the beautiful Rosa Mundi have become my companions, much like the women who came before me. They have bloomed in monastery gardens and castle courtyards, in the stillrooms of midwives and the apothecaries of healers, their essence captured in tinctures, teas, and oils.

Now, they bloom for me. For this season of my life. For this transformation.

Roses are a Tonic for the Changing Body

I have learned to listen to what my body asks of me. The journey to menopause is a shifting tide, a reawakening, a shedding of what no longer serves. The roses, always wise, remind me how to tend myself through these changes, their remedies as gentle as a petal against the skin.

To Cool the Inner Fire – When warmth rises unbidden, as if the sun itself has taken root beneath my skin, I reach for rose water. You can purchase it, or make your own by infusing rose petals in witch hazel. A spritz upon my face, my chest, my wrists, and the fire recedes. On days when the heat lingers, I slip into a cool bath strewn with fresh rose petals, the water carrying away the flush, leaving behind only softness.

To Soothe the Spirit – I keep a vial of rose oil on my bedside table, pressing a drop into my palms when my heart feels restless. I breathe in deeply, letting the scent remind me that change is a natural rhythm, that I am still whole, still beautiful, still me. At dusk, I cradle a cup of rose petal and tulsi tea, letting its warmth settle me like a familiar embrace. And when my thoughts tumble too quickly, I tuck a small sachet of dried rose petals and lavender beneath my pillow, inviting gentler dreams.

To Nourish and Restore – My skin drinks in moisture differently now, asking for more, for deeper care. I steep fresh organic rose petals and several drops of rose essential oil in almond oil to produce a slow infusion of sunlight and scent, and massage it into my arms, my legs, my heart. The ritual reminds me that my body is worthy of devotion, that it is still my home, still sacred ground.

To Tend the Heart – The heart carries much by this season of life—memories, losses, joys, the weight of all that has been lived. On days when it feels heavy, I brew a syrup full of rose petals, cinnamon and honey, and add to some sparkling water, letting the elixir move through me like a balm. It is a reminder that, just like my roses, I can bloom again after every storm.

To Invite Restful Sleep – Sleep does not always come easily these days, but I have found ways to call it home. I sip a blend of rose, chamomile, and lemon balm in the quiet hours, letting the warmth travel through me. A drop of rose oil (I buy mine from Neals Yard) on my sheets, a scattering of petals upon my pillow, and I surrender to dreams scented with moonlight and memory.

Tending the Garden Within

As I tend to my roses, I tend to myself.

I prune the old branches, the ones that no longer bear life, and I think of the beliefs, the worries, the burdens I, too, must let go. I plant cuttings for new growth, for new beginnings, and I whisper my intentions into the soil. I watch as buds form, open, and soften into petals, knowing I am doing the same.

For menopause is not a fading, not a withering. It is a deepening, a strengthening, a return to the wild beauty within.

So I step forward, like the roses in my garden—rooted in wisdom, adorned with thorns, blooming more fiercely than ever before.

And though winter still holds the world in its grasp, I know that spring is coming. The roses will bloom again. And so, too, will I.

May your days be graced with petals and moonlight,

Beth