Wilton said he’ll mow the lawn tomorrow, but I asked him to do it another time, just so the dandelions can stay a few more days.

I know most people see them as weeds. Something unwanted, something to get rid of. But I can’t help seeing them differently. To me, they’re small bursts of sunshine scattered across the grass—simple, bright, and quietly beautiful.

It makes me wonder… “who decided they didn’t belong?”

I’ve learned that dandelions symbolize migration, resilience, and hope. They go where they are carried, and still they take root. Still they rise. Still they bloom.

Maybe that’s why they feel so familiar. Maybe I resonate with their story—of being away from home, of learning how to bloom in unfamiliar places.

And maybe that’s something a woman—especially a woman of color—knows deeply: how to stand, to speak, to keep showing up for justice even when the world tries to silence her. To refuse to shrink. To refuse to disappear. To keep doing the work, even when it is hard, even when it costs something.

Because history has shown us that women have been pushed down, cut back, and overlooked. And still, they rise. Still, they return. Still, they bloom.

And maybe these are more than weeds.

Because every time I see them, I remember those who have been pushed to the margins—those labeled, silenced, arrested, even killed for seeking justice, for pursuing peace grounded in justice. And because their lives mattered. Their voices mattered. Their presence mattered.

I remember how, again and again, those in power try to uproot what they cannot control, what they refuse to understand—because a world that is more just, more whole, more beautiful for everyone threatens systems built on inequality.

And still—like dandelions—they persist. They return. They bloom.

So for now, the dandelions can stay—not just so I can admire them from my window, but to remind me: what is cut down is not gone, what is dismissed is not without worth, and what is rooted in truth and justice will always find a way to bloom in its season.