Yesterday, while grocery shopping, we encountered the predictable Valentine’s Day spectacle—bunches of roses stationed strategically at the store entrance, their vibrant colors beckoning customers to participate in the annual ritual of commercialized affection.
My partner and I have our own tradition. We wander to the card aisle together, read the funny ones aloud, share laughs, show each other our favorites, and then leave them on the shelf. We don’t feel the need to buy them. The moment itself is enough. Love, for us, lives in the everyday—in the cup of tea he makes me every morning, in gestures too small for greeting cards but too significant to overlook.
Still, we stopped to admire the flowers. Not to buy them, but to appreciate their colourful beauty. We played our game: which bunch would we choose if we were choosing? I photographed his selection and mine, smiling at this small shared moment.
Then, as we turned to leave, I saw them.
A single bunch of pale pink roses, tucked away at the end of the display. Their colour was unlike any of the others—soft, plain pastel but classically pretty. I reached for them, drawn to them as they stood out among the other bolder coloured bunches, and immediately understood why they’d been left behind.
They were broken.
Something heavy had fallen on them, snapping all of the stems near the top. The flowers drooped helplessly, unable to stand upright. Technically still attached, but functionally destroyed. I could imagine the parade of shoppers who’d noticed their distinctive color, reached for them, discovered the damage, and moved on to an unblemished bunch.
These roses would never be chosen. They’d wilt there, unappreciated and unwanted, until someone finally threw them away.
I wanted to photograph them anyway, because even broken, they were beautiful. My partner held them up for me, resting the flowers on his arm so they wouldn’t droop—so they could look as they were meant to, just for a moment. In the photo, you can’t tell they’re damaged at all. You just see what they are: perfectly lovely roses, as worthy as any other bunch.
It struck me how often we do this—to animals, to people, to ourselves. We pass over what’s broken. We choose the perfect option, the one that stands up on its own, the one that doesn’t need help. The shelter dog who’s too old, the friend who’s struggling, the person whose damage shows—we move past them, gravitating toward what’s easier, what’s whole, what demands less of us.
But here’s what those roses remind us: broken things still hold beauty. Sometimes they just need someone to hold them up for a moment. And when we do, when we help prop each other up, the broken parts become invisible. What remains is the truth—that every being, damaged or whole, deserves to be seen for what they are, not discarded for what they’re not.
The roses couldn’t stand on their own. But with a little support, they were indistinguishable from all the rest.
Aren’t we all like that, really? Just hoping someone sees past the broken stems to the bloom that remains?
-Miranda Jordan – Feb 15, 2026
FOLLOW ME on social media for more tips and information (I usually post about art/craft.): FACEBOOK | INSTAGRAM