When Flowers fade to Gray

Where have all the years gone, I wonder now...thinking back to when I was young and filled with energy...not giving a second thought to watching where I stepped. I jumped and leapt, fell down and got up, ran again - without ever thinking that the shades of gray would make me feel so vulnerable as the years flew by.

Gosh, was it so long ago that I had been hurled, unprepared, into the daunting maelstrom of life. Unready...unrehearsed - I had been forced to bravely tilt towards life's unseen and unknown windmills, much like Don Quixote, with never a moment to ponder the consequences. My uncertain, uncharted future beckoned with daunting, hopeful, and promising possibilities. So with that trembling and reckless voltage humming under my skin, I tilted toward the windmills the way some souls tilt toward possibility—headlong, wholehearted, gloriously unaware of the bruises waiting on the other side.

I didn’t just need to resemble Don Quixote; I would need to out‑Quixote him, if I were to keep my head above water and swim for dear life. He had a horse and a helmet...I only had raw conviction, a half‑formed plan, and the kind of courage that comes from not yet knowing what could hold me or what could break me.

But my family never saw me for that. They never saw the scared rabbit that wanted nothing more than to curl myself inside that closet with the one dim bulb and read books, comic books and everything that I could get my hands on. I had not been prepared for the outside world...I don't blame my parents - they never had the tools to prepare me...they just did the best they could.

I was fighting to exist, to become the strong woman that I needed to be, that everyone expected me to be. But how? Life had not equipped me with a handbook. I remember how hard going to, and getting to and from school had been. How I learned the hard way to exist among students who had been better equipped to learn about life and an education. I remember how co-workers turned their heads, smiling knowingly when I messed up trying to learn about how the work world worked. I was completely naive and inexperienced in the ways of everything.

The confusing universe kept trying to hand me maps, warnings, the sensible shoes that I needed for the hard roads.
But I was already forging forward, already catching the wind as I struggled, already choosing motion over caution. I chased ideas that were too large, too strange, too danger tinged for anyone else to touch. And every time someone whispered “consequences,” I treated it like background noise - I thought it was something I didn't have time to worry about.

I wasn’t supposed to survive that kind of naive, danger infused wildness of going about my life. But, despite the hardships - I did...barely!
And the windmills - those towering illusions, those impossible quests—left their mark on me. Not scars, exactly. More like glyphs. Symbols carved into the skin, reminders that I once believed the world could be remade simply by charging at it with enough force.

NO! Most of my family never saw that. They saw someone who needed to be there to pick up the pieces when they all fell short of their needs. They believed me to be a success, I had graduated from schools, I had gotten a job...I was working and I should meet all of their demands.

They never realized that I was just an uncertain bundle of insecurities boldly tilting alongside Don Quixote on our own individual quests for clarity. Tilting at windmills - attacking imaginary enemies and fighting a battle that mostly cannot be won.

Still. I am grateful to the few who did extend a hand when I needed it, even if they had been forced to help. But, assistance, whether given freely or not - is still assistance.

......Now one is older, looking back on how others thought you strong, but never saw the struggles - when the world finally slows down enough for you to see what everyone else missed.

They saw your strength — the way you stood upright even when the wind was trying to fold you in half. They admired your resilience, your composure, your ability to keep moving. But they never saw the private negotiations you made with yourself just to get out of bed. They never saw the nights you spent mending and reconditioning the patchwork quilt of yourself back together with trembling hands. They never saw the quiet, invisible labor of surviving your own life.

Age doesn’t make you weaker...It makes you honest.

And in that honesty, you can finally admit: strength was never the absence of struggle. It was the art of carrying it without letting it swallow you whole.

The older self reflects: How would that older self speak to the younger version of you who thought endurance meant silence.

People love the myth of a strong person more than the reality. They love the silhouette — the upright posture, the steady voice, the unbroken stride. They never imagine the weight that silhouette is holding. They never imagine the cost. But you do.

You remember every moment you almost buckled.
You remember every time you whispered to yourself, “Just one more step.”
You remember the battles no one else knew were happening.

And now, older, you look back with a kind of bittersweet pride. No...you were not flawless — but you kept going even when no one understood what it took.

When you were young, you charged at windmills with wild conviction.
Now...older, you stand still long enough to see the truth - those windmills were never giants ...............

They were the battles they sparked inside you.

You survived them.
You outgrew them.
And you carry their lessons quietly...a secret map etched into your soul.