Buy Your Own Damn Flowers: a Sneak Peek


We measure a woman’s worth in all sorts of silly ways.

How low the number on the scale is.

How many tasks a supermom can check off of her to-do list.

How big or small her wedding is.

…the list goes on and on. 

But flowers…flowers seem to be the most obvious symbol of a beloved woman in today’s world. “Good men” bring flowers on a first date, ladies corral in the office as the FedEx delivery guy drops off a dozen roses, plunked in a floral vase wrapped in delicate ribbon and renamed something like “Love’s Divine Tenderness” to reinforce the romantic grandness of such a public gesture. 

Beloved women have kitchen tables covered in tie-dyed carnations and pastel hydrangeas on holidays, and hospital rooms filled to the brim with tulip and daisy arrangements tied with foil balloons declaring things like “It’s a boy!” Or “Get well soon!”. Even after we’ve passed away, our worth is calculated based on the number of bouquets that surround our caskets. 

Whoa, that just got dark real fast! 

The point is, doesn’t it seem completely bogus to wait around your whole life for validation from others? Wouldn’t you rather just buy your own damn flowers and have that be a rebellious reminder that YOU, not your boyfriend, girlfriend, husband, wife, siblings, parents, friends, coworkers, etc, get to decide how significant you are?  

Let me be clear, this isn’t just about buying your own flowers. It’s about taking back control of your life, treating yourself like the damn queen you are, and truly believing that YOU own your life story, nobody else. 

This book was sparked by a moment after a particularly crappy workday. I was passing by the floral department of a local grocery store, on route to the super-sized wine aisle and I picked up a bouquet of gardenias and wild sunflowers. 

“I wish my husband had picked these up for me today. I mean, he KNEW I had a bad day and why couldn’t he have just stopped here on his way home?”

- I thought (my inner voice can be pretty dramatic) 

I placed the bouquet back into the plastic bucket, and carried on. As I stood in line, with a cart filled with discount wine that would make sommeliers squirm, another thought popped up, 


“What if I changed the script? What if those flowers became a symbol not of being saved, but of saving myself, becoming my own hero? What if each week, regardless of how good or bad life gets, I treated myself to fresh flowers as a reminder that I can handle it all?” 

I made a beeline for the flowers, held the bouquet under my nose, and inhaled the sweet botanical aroma. 

“Yes” I smirked

“From now on, I’ll just buy my own damn flowers.” 

Michaela Alexis