Rooting Deeper: A Love Letter to Dandelions

Yellow flowers have always held significance for me.

When I was in high school, someone told me they represented the divine, because, like the divine, they are everywhere. That idea stayed with me, long after I stopped picturing the divine as a separate being. Even now, with a spirituality that’s more rooted in mystery, embodiment, and connection than in doctrine, I still feel something sacred rise up in me when I see a field full of yellow blossoms. It feels like joy. Like presence. Like a soft yes.

And of all the yellow flowers, dandelions hold the deepest place in my heart.

They embody that phrase I’ve clung to in hard seasons: bloom where you are planted. Not because it’s easy. Not because they’re always welcome. But because they do it anyway.

If I’m in a hard place, emotionally, spiritually, physically, I try to remember the wisdom of the dandelion.

Root deep.

Crack concrete if you must.

Bloom bright and unapologetic.

Scatter seeds before you go.

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What I didn’t know as a teenager (delighted by their cheerfulness in a sea of manicured grass) was just how medicinal dandelions are.

Every part of the plant offers something healing. The roots, often roasted into tea, support liver function and detoxification, reminding me of the quiet work of inner transformation. The way our bodies, and our spirits, know how to metabolize what we’ve been through. The leaves, wild and bitter, are full of vitamins and minerals and act as a natural diuretic, flushing out what is no longer needed. Letting go. The flowers, bright and tender, are anti-inflammatory and antioxidant-rich, bringing ease to tired bodies and gentle balm to weary souls.

I sometimes wonder what would happen if we welcomed our own bitter parts with the reverence herbalists give the dandelion leaf.

If we saw what we call weeds as medicine.

If we made space for resilience to look scrappy and wild and full of healing.

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Dandelions are also generous neighbors. They aren’t just healers for humans, they tend to the earth, too. They are one of the first blooms to show up in spring, offering nectar to hungry pollinators before much else has flowered. Their deep taproots break up compacted soil, drawing nutrients up toward the surface so other plants can thrive. They stabilize disturbed ground. They come back, year after year, even after mowing, pulling, poisoning.

There’s something wildly spiritual about that.

A kind of communal care built into their being.

A refusal to let hard ground go untended.

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Spiritually, the dandelion is a teacher I return to again and again. Dandelion shows me how to be soft and strong at the same time, how to keep showing up even when the wind blows everything apart. When I’m trying too hard to be palatable, dandelion reminds me that I don't need to ask for permission to bloom, our wild and bright is beautiful, even if it’s called a weed. When I’m grieving, it reminds me that letting go is part of the cycle and scattering seeds is the sacred work necessary for new life. When I’m worn down, it tells me there is still nourishment deep in the ground. I just have to root into it, sink into the dark soil and trust what’s hidden.

Root deep. Crack concrete if you must. Bloom bright and unapologetic. Scatter seeds before you go.

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It’s easy to overlook the medicine that’s all around us.

In the cracks of sidewalks.

In what we’ve labeled undesirable.

In the parts of ourselves we were told to cut back or cover up.

Next time you see one, maybe growing wild in your yard or nestled against the curb, I invite you to pause. Place your hand on your heart. Take a breath. And let it remind you:

You are allowed to be here.

There is nourishment in the depths.

There is power in your bloom.

You carry seeds of wisdom.

And the sacred is everywhere...even in the weeds.