Never Too Late; A Tribute To Louise

I never expected that the act of skincare would lead me to one of the most profound friendships of my life. But that is the magic of Louise. Through beauty, our friendship bloomed far beyond the surface. What started as a simple client relationship turned into something much deeper—something sacred. We bonded over our shared love for aesthetics, but while I found beauty in the rituals of self-care and the glow it brought to my clients, she saw beauty in color, structure, and design. And ultimately, we both found our truest kinship in our love for nature.

She was the creator, the nurturer—the one who coaxed nature into giving us its most radiant gifts. And I was the humbled observer, forever in awe of nature’s magic and healing. She had a way of seeing beyond what was, into what could be. She was a great teacher, not just in words but in the way she lived, in the way she tenderly encouraged the soil to yield its most stunning blooms, its richest foliage. Watching her in her element was like witnessing a form of love that I had never truly known—a love that gives, that tends, that nurtures without expectation.

The Foretold Embrace

On March 20, 2021, as I was navigating the depths of my healing journey, searching for guidance, I received a tarot reading. Among the many messages that came through, one stood out: “There is a very nurturing woman—perhaps a man with these qualities—offering you much love, compassion, and emotional support. She is like a big, warm hug for you.”

At the time, I didn’t think much of it. And yet, in hindsight, it is the only thing I truly remember from that reading. The words lingered, waiting for their meaning to become clear.

Little did I know that this embrace had already entered my life months earlier.

Meeting Louise

Louise first came to my studio on September 17, 2020, for skincare. A simple appointment. A moment like any other. But looking back, I now see it as a turning point, the moment I met a woman who would become a cherished friend, a guiding light—the motherly figure I never had. Indeed, she became that big, warm hug I had been longing for all my life.

During her consultation, she hesitated. “Perhaps it’s too late for me,” she said softly, as if self-care had an expiration date. She was already 61, she explained. I looked at her with certainty and told her, “It is never too late.”

And that was the first of many lessons we would teach each other.

The pandemic was raging, shifting the world into stillness. But even during those uncertain times, we found joy in simple things. When the closure mandates lifted, we donned our masks and made our way to plant nurseries, weaving through rows of green life, selecting new additions to our ever-growing collections. We often joked and giggled about how little room we had left for one more pot, yet somehow, we always found a way.

The Magic She Created

At some point, I asked her if she might help with the planters at my home and studio. What I expected to be a simple favor turned into something far more profound. With her loving hands and the help of her ever-crafty husband, she transformed my world. My garden, my deck, my home—they became canvases for her artistry. But more than that, she nurtured my space with the same motherly tenderness she brought to everything she touched. This was a feeling I had never known, and yet my soul recognized it instantly.

She had this way of making everything around her more beautiful—not just through design, but through kindness, wisdom, and love. She didn’t just make my home more beautiful. She made me more beautiful, not in the way of perfect skin or polished appearances, but in the way that being truly seen and deeply loved makes you glow from within.

The Teacher and the Garden

Before I met her, the lack of maternal love left the soil of my heart barren—dry, cracked, untouched by the nourishment it so desperately craved. I had spent a lifetime learning to survive in that drought, convincing myself that some hearts were simply meant to go without, that some gardens were never meant to bloom.

But then came Louise.

With her hands that knew the language of care, with her quiet wisdom that never sought to fix, only to nurture. She didn’t rush in with grand gestures; she simply tended—with patience, with presence, with an unspoken knowing that even the most neglected soil still holds the memory of what it means to grow.

And grow I did.

Under her gentle care, my heart, once starved of warmth, began to soften, to take root, to burst forth in blossoms I never thought possible. And what I didn’t realize then was that she wasn’t just tending to my garden—she was tending to my soul.

A Bond Rooted in Nature

We bonded over many things, but nothing quite as deeply as our love for plants. Louise understood the language of nature—the patience, the care, the trust it takes to nurture something into full expression. She taught me that growth is not always immediate, that some things take longer to bloom, but that does not mean they won’t. That love, when given freely and consistently, has the power to heal what was once neglected. In between seasons, and Summer garden tours, she showed me that life, just like a garden, is a process of tending, growing, and embracing both the seasons of abundance and the seasons of stillness.

I love many of my clients, and I truly do adore them all. But Louise was different. She was home. A kindred spirit who, without even trying, filled the spaces in me that had long been empty. She softened the walls I had built to survive. She reached me beyond my wounds, because she was meant to.

The Cruel Paradox of Grief

And now, I find myself aching in the cruel paradox of grief—knowing that she is returning to the vast, infinite embrace of the cosmos, that she is finally free, but still longing for one more moment. One more trip to the nursery. One more afternoon tending to the garden. One more cup of coffee on the deck. One more conversation. One more giggle with a new plant in hand. One more chance to tell her just how much she meant to me.

But I know, deep in my bones, that she is not truly gone. Love like hers imprints itself on the very fabric of our being. She is in the way I soften now, in the way I let love in where I once resisted. She is in the lessons she left behind, in the echoes of her care that will live in me forever. She is in the plants she nurtured, in the warmth of a well-loved space, in every reminder that beauty is something we create—with our hands, our hearts, our presence.

And so, I will grieve her with all the love that is pouring through me, knowing that this love is simply proof that she was here. That she mattered. That she changed me.

And when the time is right, I will carry her forward—not in sorrow, but in the undeniable knowing that she loved me as I deserved to be loved and I hope she left knowing how much I loved her too.

That her love does not disappear. It is part of me now.

Some words are not enough. Some emotions are too vast for sentences alone.

And so since her passing, I sat quietly inside my heart and I wrote a song for Louise.

💜 Never Too Late for Love to Grow 💜

Music has a way of holding grief, of giving it form when we feel like we’re drowning in it. This song is my love letter to her—to the way she saw beauty, the way she nurtured it, the way she nurtured me.

The lyrics hold the weight of my gratitude, the ache of loss, and the promise that she will never be forgotten. And if you, too, loved Louise, I hope this song serves as a small tribute to the kindness, warmth, and friendship she so freely gave to all who knew her.

Because love, when given freely and consistently, has the power to heal what was once neglected. Louise knew that. She lived that. And now, through this song, I hope her love in all of those she touched continues to bloom.

Honoring Louise Under the Light of the Eclipse

Some things are never coincidences. They are written in the fabric of time, woven into the unseen threads that guide us.

I knew this first eclipse of the year would bring change, but I never imagined it would bring this kind of loss, this kind of shift.  And now, on March 14th—her birthday—the Moon eclipses, marking both an ending and a beginning. At 2:58 a.m., when the eclipse reaches its peak, the Moon will be completely shadowed, resting in stillness before emerging again. And in many ways, that is exactly how I feel in this moment. Suspended between grief and gratitude, mourning her absence while holding onto everything she left behind in me.

Louise’s love was not meant to stay in one form. And neither is she.

As the Moon re-emerges from darkness, I will take it as a sign—a whisper from the universe that while loss is inevitable, so is transformation. So is love finding new ways to exist. So is carrying forward the warmth she gave me, now woven into my own hands, my own heart, my own way of giving.

This post is my tribute, my offering, my promise: to honor her, to grieve her, to never stop letting what she nurtured in me bloom in the world around me.

✨ Happy Birthday, Louise. Thank you for everything. You are everywhere now. ✨

Forever, in every bloom.

03.14.1959 - 03.06.2025