Somewhere along the way, I stopped expecting life to separate itself into neat categories.
Joy and struggle can coexist. Peace can exist alongside hardship, too. That wasn’t always something I understood—it’s a realization that’s come with time.
There are seasons marked by intensity—long days, work that spills into the margins, unplanned obstacles that add steps to an already full schedule. And still, within those same seasons, there can be moments of deep gratitude. Joy. Beauty you didn’t plan for.
Then there are slower seasons—ones that invite rest and reflection. Seasons that don’t always translate neatly into visible productivity, but shape things quietly all the same.
Lavender Living is my way of naming the middle space.
It’s the acceptance that life isn’t lived in clean, separate colors. That seasons of intensity and seasons of rest aren’t meant to cancel each other out. That presence doesn’t require fixing what’s hard—it asks us to stay with it long enough to notice what’s still good.
Red
One of my biggest lessons learned in self-employment is how easily you can grind your life away.
A flexible, open schedule sounds like freedom until you realize you’ve traded a 9–5 for something closer to 24/7. There’s always one more thing you could do. One more order to fill. One more idea to chase. I’ll be the first to admit—it’s not sustainable long-term. At some point, you have to find the pause.
That doesn’t mean life should aim to be always calm.
Another misconception—especially since I live on a lavender farm..
While there are undeniably idyllic moments, it’s the kind of season-long work you simply can’t romanticize. The growing season is long and chaotic—busy, and genuinely exhausting. Markets require long days and late nights. There are periods where intensity is unavoidable and even necessary. Days spent in the field, and—for our current season of life—long evenings at the softball field.
But blue season is just around the corner. And for now, I look for her wherever I can find her.
Blue
Blue seasons look quieter from the outside, but they’re where most of my learning happens.
People are often surprised to learn that I’m not constantly running at full speed. I don’t operate well that way. I require a fair amount of quiet and downtime to function fully—to think clearly, to create, to show up as myself.
This was a lesson learned after several seasons that ended in months-long burnout. I’ll be honest and say I haven’t completely eliminated burnout, but I’ve made peace with her—and maybe that’s where it’s at.
Each season gets progressively better as I learn to find pause. Sometimes it’s as simple as getting a coffee. Or deciding it’s enough for today.
Yes, things take longer when you choose to operate this way. Progress isn’t as fast. Output isn’t as constant. But balance and quality of life have come to matter more to me than speed. I’ve learned that growth which requires constant depletion eventually stops feeling like growth at all.
What shifted for me wasn’t the work itself, but how I began to understand the seasons it moves through. Some seasons ask for intensity—focus, endurance, momentum. Others ask for rest—space, reflection, recovery.
Neither is wrong. Neither is permanent. And neither works well when it’s asked to carry the entire weight of a life.
That’s where something began to take shape.
Lavender
I started thinking of these seasons in color.
Red seasons are full, demanding, sometimes relentless. They’re marked by long days, heavy responsibility, and the kind of forward motion that leaves little room for pause. Red seasons build things—but they also draw deeply from your reserves.
Blue seasons are quieter and restorative. They invite you to breathe, to reflect, to let your nervous system settle. They don’t erase what came before; they help you recover from it.
For a long time, I treated these seasons as opposites—something to push through as quickly as possible to reach the “better” one. What I’m learning is that neither works in isolation for very long. When red and blue are allowed to exist in conversation with one another, something else forms.
That’s where lavender lives.
Lavender isn’t urgency or ease. It isn’t hustle or rest. It’s the practice of presence—of being honest about what the season requires, and allowing yourself to meet it without resistance.
This lesson became unavoidable for me this past summer and fall.
An autoimmune flare forced me to reduce my output to absolute necessities. There wasn’t room for extra pushing or powering through. What I could give each day had clear edges, whether I liked it or not. At first, that felt deeply uncomfortable. Productivity has a way of tying itself to worth—especially in self-employment.
But over time, something shifted. Stripping things back created space for support—both personally and within my business—in ways I hadn’t allowed before.
I learned that needing help isn’t a failure of capacity. Sometimes it’s an invitation to live more honestly inside your limits. That season didn’t remove intensity from my life—it reshaped it. And it made this way of living less aspirational and more necessary.
Lavender doesn’t usually show up in big, sweeping ways. More often, it looks like standing in the middle of a full day and noticing something small that grounds you. A pause between tasks. A moment of quiet before the next obligation. Letting yourself sit instead of filling the space.
For me, it often looks like this: the work isn’t finished, the list isn’t cleared—and yet I step outside anyway.
The fields are quiet.
The plants are still.
Nothing is asking me to rush.
There will always be one more thing to do..
It’s not a moment that solves anything. It doesn’t change the pace of the season. But it softens it. And sometimes, that’s enough.
I don’t believe balance is something we arrive at and keep.
I think it’s something we return to—again and again—as life shifts.
Lavender Living isn’t about choosing intensity or rest. It’s about presence. About making peace with the fact that life holds more than one truth at a time—and that we’re allowed to live gently inside that reality.
For now, that’s the practice I’m keeping.
January is my blue season. But as I work on these pages, I suppose that’s me intertwining a little red and finding my lavender.
Whatever season you’re in—red or blue—I hope you’re able to find the in-between.
With gratitude, Millie
