The Story of the Dahlia

I love dahlias. If you go to a local farmer’s market during fall in the Pacific Northwest, you’ll be greeted with rows upon rows of dahlias. You can’t help but be drawn into their striking colors.

My paternal grandfather is one of my favorite people. He died in 2010 after an extensive battle with cancer. Two years before his death, he spent his summer growing dahlias in his garden for our wedding. The wedding cake was laced with purple dahlias… laced with his love.

My grandpa Milt moved through the world with a zest for life that was contagious. His work as a general surgeon took him across the globe, and my childhood holds countless memories of looking through his medical slides and photos. I knew he always wanted me to follow in his path and pursue a medical career. I initially wanted this, too, and tried my hand at pre-med courses in college. I quickly learned that I didn’t have the natural instincts for science courses, or the stomach, for a career as a doctor. I ended up in a very different helping profession than my grandpa. But in many ways, we remain connected in a desire to accompany and heal trauma in the body.

Just like dahlias cannot grow without a safe place to rest their bulbs, we all need a safe place to root ourselves so that we can grow.

The dahlia bulbs from my grandpa’s garden are planted in a pot on my back deck. Every year they pop through the soil and give me a piece of my grandpa back. My dahlias remind me that our stories matter, and deserve to be told.

So, will you tell me your story?