The person who has bought me the most flowers in my life is me.
People often assume that's a sad sentence, but I've never understood why. Buying myself flowers has never been a replacement for romance or a way of pretending I didn't want to receive them from someone else. It has simply been one of the easiest ways to make ordinary life feel more beautiful. I've never believed that beauty should wait for a birthday, Valentine's Day or another person's initiative. If I walk past a florist and see peonies, ranunculus or hydrangeas, there's a good chance they'll come home with me. An ordinary Tuesday has always seemed like reason enough.
October 2026. This week's flowers, chosen for no reason at all. Photo by Laura Achrem.
Rachel Ruysch, Still Life with Flowers in a Glass Vase, c. 1690–1720. Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam, public domain.
Virginia Woolf would have understood. She opened one of the most famous novels of the twentieth century with almost the same thought: Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself. Decades later, Michael Cunningham carried that sentence through three women and three eras in The Hours, the novel that won him the Pulitzer Prize, all the way to an apartment in New York, where a woman her oldest friend calls Mrs. Dalloway decides, once again, to buy the flowers herself. I have watched the film more times than I can count.
The Hours (2002), directed by Stephen Daldry, cinematography by Seamus McGarvey. Meryl Streep as Clarissa Vaughan. © Paramount Pictures / Miramax.
And whenever I see stock, I bring some home for my grandmother. It was her favorite flower. She could see things other people couldn't, and I like to think she still does.
April 2026. Ranunculus, snapdragons, and stock, my grandmother's favorite, still in their paper. Photo by Laura Achrem.
Over time, flowers became part of the rhythm of my life. So did books waiting to be read on every table and the absurdly expensive candle from a French perfumery that somehow makes my apartment feel unmistakably like home. None of those things are essential, and that's exactly why I love them. They're small luxuries that don't solve any problems, but they make everyday life softer, warmer and infinitely more personal. I've always believed that our homes should reflect the way we want to feel, not just the way we want them to look.
Clara Peeters, Still Life with Flowers and Gold Cups of Honour, 1612. Staatliche Kunsthalle Karlsruhe, public domain.
The funny thing is that every man I've ever dated knew how much I loved flowers. Not because I kept talking about them or expected anyone to memorize the names of my favorite blooms. They knew because the evidence was sitting in plain sight every single time they walked through my front door. There was always a fresh bouquet somewhere in the apartment. Looking back, I honestly think I couldn't have left a clearer clue if I'd attached a note to the vase saying, These make me ridiculously happy.
People often describe love as complicated. I've started to think that, more often than not, it isn't. Sometimes the people we care about spend years quietly showing us what makes them happy. The real question is whether anyone is paying enough attention to notice.
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One of the things I've never understood is why people insist that women are so difficult to understand. Are we? Because from where I'm standing, I've spent years leaving remarkably obvious clues. If someone wanted to know which flowers I loved, they didn't need to become an expert in romance or develop extraordinary intuition. They could have taken a photo of the bouquet already sitting on my dining table, walked into the nearest florist and simply said, “My girlfriend loves these.” It might be one of the easiest romantic gestures imaginable, yet it's astonishing how often people overlook things that are right in front of them.
That made me realize something much bigger than flowers. Most people don't hide what brings them joy. They reveal it every single day through small, almost invisible rituals. It's in the coffee they always order, the books they can't stop recommending, the candle they immediately replace when it burns out, the corner table they choose in their favorite café or the fresh flowers they bring home every week. Those habits aren't random. They're tiny pieces of information about the life someone is intentionally creating for themselves.
I've come to believe that love begins with curiosity. Not the kind that asks endless questions, but the kind that quietly observes. The kind that notices. The kind that remembers. Because anyone can buy a random bouquet on Valentine's Day. The rare part is knowing which flowers would make the person you love stop, smile and think, You really do know me.
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Somewhere along the way, buying myself flowers stopped being a habit and became a standard.
Not a standard for flowers.
A standard for life.
When you spend years creating a home you truly love coming back to, something shifts. You stop waiting for another person to bring beauty into your life because beauty is already there. The flowers are already on the table. The books are already waiting to be read. The candle is already burning on quiet evenings. None of those things are filling a void. They're simply part of a life you've intentionally built.
I think people often misunderstand what independence looks like. They imagine it means not wanting anyone, not needing romance or convincing yourself you're happier alone. I've never believed that. I still love thoughtful gestures. I still think flowers arriving at the door for no reason are incredibly romantic. The difference is that they no longer create happiness. They add to it.
And I've realized that's a very different place to love from.
When your life already feels beautiful, you stop looking for someone to rescue you from it. You simply start looking for someone who enjoys adding to what you've already created.
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That's probably why my expectations have changed so much over the years.
When I was younger, I thought romance was about surprises. Today, I think it's about attention, especially on completely ordinary days, when there is nothing to celebrate and nothing to apologize for.
There's something deeply attractive about a person who notices the little things. Someone who remembers which side of the bed you always sleep on, which café you instinctively choose, which candle you keep buying or which flowers somehow always find their way onto your dining table. None of that requires a spectacular memory. It simply requires caring enough to notice.
People often talk about love languages, but I sometimes think observation should be one of them.
It's surprisingly easy to make someone feel loved when you've been paying attention all along. I don't think love fades because people change. I think it fades when they stop paying attention.
Flowers were never really the point. They were simply the easiest example of a much bigger truth: feeling loved often begins with feeling seen.
That's why flowers have become one of my non-negotiables, although not for the reason most people imagine. I don't need someone to buy them because I've never stopped buying them for myself. I need someone who notices that flowers matter to me in the first place. Someone who sees the little rituals that make my life feel like mine and naturally wants to become part of them.
Because if I've spent years learning how to make my own life beautiful, I don't think love should ask me to lower that standard.
I think it should arrive carrying an even bigger bouquet.
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Being single in my thirties has taught me something I wish I'd understood much earlier. Building a beautiful life for yourself doesn't make love less important. It simply changes the role love gets to play. I'm no longer looking for someone to create happiness for me because I've spent years learning how to create it myself. Fresh flowers, meaningful conversations, traveling the world and all the little rituals that make ordinary days feel special were never ways of passing time until I met the right person. They became the life I truly wanted to live.
I don't expect someone to complete me. I want someone who notices the things that matter to me without needing a detailed explanation, and who sees thoughtfulness not as an obligation but as one of the simplest ways to love another person.
I'll probably keep buying myself flowers for the rest of my life, and I hope I never stop. But I'd love to meet someone who, every now and then, quietly beats me to it. Not because I need the flowers, but because nothing is more romantic than being with someone who has been paying attention all along.
xx, Laura
If this note stayed with you, you might also like The Version of You I Fell in Love With Never Existed, on projection and the people we invent, and The Love We Don't Recognize, on why peace can feel unfamiliar.
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