Past Lives, Side Quests & Epiphanies

Being a wedding florist’s assistant meant waking up before the world, or so it felt. Stepping into the quiet hum of the markets while the world still felt half-asleep. Bathing orchids became an art, trimming thorns a quiet meditation. There was a rhythm to it—rearranging, unassembling, starting over. Learning that beauty is both chaos and calm, that love comes in all shapes and sizes, tied together with silk ribbons and scattered rose petals.

Setting up at wedding venues felt like building a world from scratch, weaving dreams into existence. Draping ivy over archways, crafting cascading floral chandeliers, pressing the final delicate rose stem into place along the altar. By the time we stepped back, the air itself shimmered with anticipation. The pride in our work was undeniable—we’d step away, mesmerized by the transformation, feeling the hush of nerves from bridesmaids adjusting their dresses, grooms shifting on their feet, the quiet before the grand beginning.

And then, the morning after. We’d return to a different kind of magic—petals scattered like love notes across the floor, wax pooled at the base of flickering candles, the air still thick with the memory of vows and laughter and bodies spinning wildly in celebration. Taking it all down felt just as sacred as setting it up. I always whispered soft prayers for the families and the happy couples as we untied the rose stems from the altars, as if leaving behind a blessing in place of the flowers.

One Hindu wedding in particular could have been the most color I have ever bathed in. Marigolds rained from every surface, golden and bold, wrapped in rich fabrics of crimson, saffron, fuchsia. The air pulsed with drumbeats and laughter, and we wove ourselves through it, barely able to catch our breath from both the pace of the setup and the sheer beauty of it all. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a space so alive.

I dreamt in violets and petals, my hands forever dusted with pollen, my fingertips tracing the soft edges of blooms that would soon witness whispered vows and first dances. Every night, I returned home carrying the scent of the earth, as if love itself had left its imprint on me.

Being a kennel hand at a rescue center meant stepping into the thick of it—scrubbing kennels, soothing trembling bodies, learning the language of fear and the slow, patient work of rebuilding trust. I learned that aggression was almost always rooted in fear, just as love was built on trust. Some dogs flinched at a raised hand, others cowered at a gentle touch. Each carried a story no one would ever fully know.

Exhaustion settled deep in my bones, but so did purpose. The anger at cruelty burned as fiercely as the relief of rescue—the quiet victory of knowing that, for some, there would be a second chance. Some never got one. But still, we tried. I think that shelter heard more of my prayers than a church ever would. They say dogs speak, but only to those who know how to listen. And I listened.

From dirt under my nails and dogs at my heels to the world of a Governess meant polished shoes and childhood wonder—two worlds that, in their own way, felt complementary. One was instinct, survival, learning to read the unspoken. The other was guidance, structure, reasoning. Nature versus nurture.

Prim and proper, a mentor and an example, yet it was the children who taught me more than I could ever teach them. When they asked the big questions—the ones adults fumble over—I realized, all over again, the beauty of perspective. Their curiosity cracked open forgotten corners of my own mind, made me look at the world with fresher, softer eyes. I learned that showing up matters more than perfection. That patience is a bridge, not a barricade. That making less of a deal about accidental spills and a bigger deal about feeling invincible shapes more than just a moment—it shapes a heart.

Pilates taught me precision. Meditation taught me presence. Sound taught me surrender. Intentional movement is poetry in motion, a language the body speaks before the mind even catches up. It’s one thing to practice it alone—to flow in quiet, to breathe with the rhythm of your own body—but another entirely to guide others through it. Teaching is an art of its own. Words must be carefully chosen, just enough to guide but never to intrude. And other times, words aren’t needed at all—solely the breath.

Holding space became second nature, not just for movement but for whatever rose to the surface. Memories stored in muscles, emotions held too tightly in the chest, tension woven into the body like thread. My role wasn’t to fix, but to witness. To remind others (and myself) that movement isn’t just about strength or flexibility, but about meeting yourself exactly where you are—without expectation, without resistance.

The ancient practice of Tibetan singing bowls shaped me in ways I hadn’t expected. The resonance was more than just vibration; it was recognition. As if the tones had been echoing somewhere in the background of my life, waiting to be heard. Waiting to remind me that stillness isn’t emptiness, and that presence is the key.

I have taught, and I have been taught. By animals, about patience. By flowers, about timing. By children, about simple pleasures. By movement, about control and release. And then, in the quiet rhythm of my own classroom, teaching English as a foreign language, it was all about melody in language, the art of expression, double meanings, and endless descriptions. Teaching English became another kind of exchange—one of curiosity, effort, and realization. It was never just about grammar rules or sentence structures, but about connection.

I learned about cultures, about resilience, about the way language builds bridges across oceans. About saying one thing but meaning another. My classes became a safe space—for young learners just beginning to find their voices, for teens navigating the crossroads, and for adults who walked in thinking it was impossible, only to discover it wasn’t, after all. Nouns, tenses, conjunctions, intonations, phonetics; we time-traveled and debated, and I learned to see my own second language through new eyes. To appreciate its nuance, its rhythm, its quirks.

Every word carried weight, every sound carried intention. And in every lesson, I found a reminder that learning is never a one-way street. It’s about patience, about knowing when to step in and when to let someone wrestle with an answer. It’s about the beauty of stumbling through a sentence, of trying, of getting it wrong and laughing before getting it right. It’s about understanding that language is not just a tool—it’s a lifeline, a way of shaping the world around us.

I continue to carry these past lives with me—they sustain me, teach me, remind me. A mosaic of experience, more than just a job. Each one has shaped the way I see the world, the way I move through it, the way I listen. They are not just experiences but echoes, each one adding a layer to who I am, who I might become.

When the future asks, “What’s next?”, I’d like to answer, “Well, what do you have for me?” Not with fear, not with urgency, but with curiosity.

I am always reminded of Sylvia Plath’s fig tree metaphor, where she writes:

"I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet, and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out."

There is no single fig to choose, no one path to commit to forever. The beauty of it all is that some figs ripen and fall, while others blossom unexpectedly. And so I stand beneath the tree, hands open, ready for whatever lands in my palms next.