This past week, I sat at the table with my mother’s sisters—my Aunt Eloise and Aunt Rose—and listened. Really listened.

One of them is convalescing, while the other had traveled from the West Coast, determined to visit every sibling she could from D.C. to Florida. I’m so grateful she made that journey. What we shared this week wasn’t just conversation—it was inheritance.

Aunt Rose, especially, poured out stories about growing up in Brevard—stories of Allen High School, of segregation, of the weight of survival and the wonder of sisterhood. She and my mother were close in age, just a couple of years apart. She told me about the bedtime stories Mama used to make up on the spot. Just when it got good, Mama would turn and say, “I’m sleepy, Rose. You’ll have to wait until tomorrow night for the rest.” Aunt Rose would lie there, waiting with bated breath for the next part of the story. However, when the next night came, Mama would smile and say, “I’ve got a new story tonight.” That moment stayed with me.

The stories we carry and the ones we tell are not only shaped by memory; they are shaped by perspective. Aunt Rose and Mama were raised in the same home, under the same roof. What Aunt Rose saw in my mother—perfection, strength, wisdom—my mother didn’t always feel. There were times when she felt invisible, quiet, and in the background. Still, she became the woman others looked to, leaned on, and admired.

That difference between how we are seen and how we see ourselves shapes everything. It affects our self-worth, our decisions, and our sense of purpose. This is one reason why storytelling is so powerful; it allows people to share the truth of their own becoming.

Listening to Aunt Rose felt like watching a garden bloom in real time. As she began speaking about the importance of maintaining a relationship with God—through everything, even when life doesn’t make sense—my daughter Ashley leaned over to me and whispered, “Mama, you need to write her book.”

Ashley was right. I do. I need to write so many stories. These stories are not just recollections; they are testaments. They are healing. They carry survival, surrender, and strength, all woven together.

I have always believed that Bloom Where You’re Planted is more than a blog. It serves as a reminder that no matter what your story has been, God still intends for you to bloom. Whether your beginning felt invisible, your middle was difficult, or you’re still waiting for the next part, you are still growing.

Our lives are shaped by the stories we share, and also by our willingness to receive the stories others carry. This week, I received. I listened. I felt the Lord whisper again, “You were made for this.” I was made to gather, to honor, to write, and to help the world remember.

Everyone has a story. Each one deserves to bloom.

In love and charity,

Giselle (aka) Blooming-lillie