Are You An Orchid In a Field of Sunflowers?

I’m at an event that matters to my husband, though I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t rather be home in my pajamas.

The music booms from a tall speaker in the ballroom corner while clusters of people laugh and lean close to be heard. I move through the crowd slowly, careful not to trip over my dress in my unbroken-in heels. A man passes by and his drink splashes across my arm.

“Hey, sorry about that!” he calls over the noise before disappearing again.

I glance down at my watch and smile. Only 30 more minutes until quiet and bare feet.

It’s not that I can’t handle the noise or the crowds or that I don’t enjoy being with people. I can, and I do. But hours of small talk can leave me running on fumes. I find it far easier to have deep conversations with a few folks instead of making rounds across the room.

Are You an Orchid or a Sunflower?

It’s in moments like these that I used to feel like an orchid in a field of sunflowers.

Not because I think I’m rare or fragile, but because I’m wired to notice. I take in life through the small, unassuming details—the mood in a room, the color of the sky before it rains. Like an orchid, I bloom best when there’s balance, rhythm, and care.

The people around me often seem more like sunflowers—steady, bright, and beautifully grounded. They carry a kind of open-hearted strength, able to turn toward the light no matter the weather. I admire their resilience, even when I can’t always match it.

I’m married to one of those sunflowers.

My husband’s years in the Army taught him he can eat anything, sleep anywhere, and make split-second decisions. I watch him juggle a dozen things at once, almost as if he thrives under pressure. The man rarely gets sick and has a gut—and a soul—made of steel.

And me? There’s no way I could have hacked it in the military—my digestive tract would have sent me home by day two. I crave solitude after a full day of motion and tend to process things, slowly, layer by layer. While he finds energy in lively debates about politics or world events, I come alive in conversations where someone risks sharing their heart.

We’re wired differently, each bringing something unique to our relationship—his steadiness deepens my reflection, my sensitivity slows his pace. But I didn’t always see it that way.

Trying to Be Different

For years, I wanted to become like the sunflowers around me.

I thought that meant hiding my tenderness—learning to be tougher, more engaged in the topics and activities the people around me gravitated toward. I didn’t want to feel so much either. I wanted to learn how to tune out the nuances in my environment and every change in the air.

So I pushed harder, bypassed my own signals, and called it fortitude. Coffee replaced rest. Lists replaced laughter. I ignored exhaustion until my health collapsed and I was forced to slow down.

When I realized I couldn’t will myself into a new temperament, I turned the frustration inward. Why can’t you just get it together? my inner critic would hiss. Why are you so sensitive?

But self-criticism never produced peace. It only kept me circling between shame and striving, stuck in the belief that something in me needed fixing.

Maybe you know that cycle too—the one where we try to outgrow the very wiring God gave us. Eventually, grace catches up.

When Sensitivity Becomes a Strength

One evening, my husband and I sat in our backyard swapping stories about the day. As he spoke, a waning slice of sunlight caught on the bushes beside me, painting them in shifting shades of green. I watched until the light slipped away.

That small burst of beauty felt like a gift meant just for me.

I sat a little straighter, and I remembered: I notice things like this all the time. The sensitivity that at times can feel like a liability also allows me to see subtle cues of grace, like the way light dances through the leaves or a voice softens when someone speaks of what they love.

These days, I pay more attention to what steadies me. Before events like that ballroom night, I try to eat well, hydrate, rest, and pray. When the world grows loud, I pause long enough to ask what I need—fresh air, stillness, or simply permission to step away.

There Are Different Ways to Flourish

Learning to accept and work with how I’m made has changed how I see others too. Maybe that’s the quiet wisdom of midlife—realizing there was never just one kind of strong or one way to flourish.

Now, instead of seeing a lone orchid in a field of sunflowers, I see a whole garden. Wildflowers that push through hard ground, peace lilies that bloom in low light, and daisies that open faithfully to the morning sun. Each one holds its own beauty and strength. Funny enough, I later learned that orchids are more resilient than I once thought.

The same Creator who dreamed up a thousand shades of green and endless forms of beauty wired us differently on purpose. Each of us offers something uniquely our own. The longer I live, the more I see it. Perhaps the real gift is finding peace in celebrating it all.

Reflection questions for you to consider:

• What kind of “flower” do you feel most like right now? What kind of care helps you grow?
• Where have you seen your sensitivity or strength show up as a gift?
• What are some of your favorite things about yourself?

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(Photo by Hiếu Hoàng/Pexels)