Grief is a bougainvillea—wild, uncontained, and impossible to ignore. It spills over the fences of our lives, its thorns nipping at our skin when we least expect it. Yet in the same breath it wounds, it bursts with color, reminding us that beauty refuses to vanish even in loss. To mourn a loved one is to live with this vine: to bleed from its thorns, yet marvel at its blossoms. It is a garden we never chose to step in, one that we were never trained to tend. Grief forces us into landscapes we never prepared for, teaching us that the most painful roots are often the ones that grow the deepest.

Grief does not move in a straight line. It curls, climbs, and reaches into places we never expected, like bougainvillea creeping into every corner of a wall. Its thorns pierce without warning. A memory, a song, or the trace of a familiar scent suddenly drains the soul. We find ourselves bleeding from moments as ordinary as passing by their favorite chair, folding a shirt they once wore, or tasting the drink they adored. Even the smallest reminders—a half-finished note, a song humming through the radio, the smell of rain on pavement—can slice us open. These thorns leave deep scars—the ache of love and absence carved into our very skin.

Still, grief is not solely thorns and vines. Like bougainvillea, it teaches us how to bloom. Amid its sting, there are bursts of color: laughter spilling when we recall their finest moments, tenderness rising when we hear their words echo in our own voice. Whether we stumble upon their favorite belongings or recall the lessons they left us, there is a quiet comfort in carrying on their legacy. The blossoms remind us that grief is rooted in love—that the pain we feel is proof of a bond that endures beyond time. Love is the soil from which both the blooms and the thorns rise, inseparable and eternal.

Coping with loss is not about uprooting grief or forcing it from the soil of our lives. It is about walking among its thorns, acknowledging both the wounds and the blossoms. Some days the vines will tighten around the heart, choking and unrelenting. On other days, sunlight will catch the flowers just right, reminding us that beauty still lingers and love still grows. Even as grief twists itself deeper into us, its blossoms can offer shade, color, and unexpected grace. To live with grief is to allow its contradictions—to bleed and to bloom, to ache and to laugh, often within the same breath.

Life is a secret garden—full of blossoms we never anticipated, thorns that puncture deeply, vines that arrive uninvited, and roots that run deeper than memory. Grief grows there too: tangled, unruly, and unchosen. Yet even in its shadow, flowers still bloom, spilling color into silence. To grieve is to tend this garden with tenderness, to accept its wildness, and to trust that love—like the bougainvillea—will always find its way back to the light.