For more than 23 years, the question of who I was had an easy answer: I was in the United States Coast Guard.
Between my career and my husband’s 12-plus years of service, the rhythm of duty, structure, and readiness was our entire world. It took us many places, but along the way, we fell hard for Northeast Ohio. Between breathtaking Lake Erie, phenomenal season changes, and the quiet grit of the people, Ohio won us over. When the time came to hang up the uniform in late 2024, there was no doubt in our minds where we wanted to plant our roots. We were proud veterans, and we are officially proud Ohioans.
Then came the quiet that follows a 23-year career. Suddenly, I was standing in front of a closet without a uniform, facing a question that felt both thrilling and terrifying: Who am I now?
If you are an empath, you know the pull. People wired with a servant’s heart usually end up smack dab in uniforms, hospitals, classrooms, or public service. That impulse doesn’t just shut off because you received a retirement certificate. So, true to form, I immediately jumped into another role offering the community legal support. The work was undeniably important, but it was also heavy, heartbreaking, and ultimately led to a wild case of burnout. During that season of feeling untethered, there was only one place where the noise stopped: out in the garden.
With my hands in the dirt, the world made sense. The soil didn’t ask for reports or ask to store others’ heartbreak; it just responded to care, patience, and the elements. A question began tapping in the back of my mind, growing into a steady drumbeat that got louder with each passing week: What brings you pure joy while still serving others?
Eventually, the drumbeat was too loud to ignore. It was time for the biggest transition of my adult life. And yes, much like that infamous episode of Friends with Ross screaming up a stairwell, I found myself mentally shouting: “PIVOT! PIVOT! PIVOT!” I took a deep breath, stepped away from my job, and poured every ounce of energy into creating Compass Rose Flower Farm.
My husband and I threw ourselves into the deep end. We consumed books, blogs, and video tutorials on flower farming. I studied floral color theory, mapped succession plantings, and tested cottage bakery recipes until our kitchen smelled like magic and had a dusting of flour on every surface (I cleaned it up, don’t worry). By August, the beds were blooming, the oven was running, and we took the leap to bring our goods to the public.
People often ask: How does running a micro flower farm and a cottage bakery translate to a servant’s heart? Before this year, I might have struggled to explain it. Today, after our very first growing season, the answer is crystal clear.
Service is standing at our roadside stand when someone picks up a mixed bouquet, touches a petal, and says that these were the exact flowers grown in their grandmother’s backyard. In this moment, I get to watch them travel back in time for thirty seconds of pure comfort.
Service is opening an email from a customer telling us that our marshmallow treats taste just like the ones their late mother made after school, and realizing they now stop by our weekend stand just to feel close to her memory.
Service is working with a mother planning a baby shower on a shoestring budget, refusing to let financial stress overshadow her excitement, and crafting floral pieces that make her daughter feel like royalty celebrating her first child.
Service isn't just about emergency response or high-stakes missions. Sometimes, service is simply offering a tangible dose of beauty, warmth, and nostalgia to someone who needs a reminder that the world is still gentle.
Whether you’ve been stopping by our stand over the past three months or you’re discovering our story right here on our brand-new website, thank you for welcoming us into your daily lives and weekend traditions.
This first season has been filled with humble learning, early mornings, flour-dusted counters, and incredible human connection.
Thank you for being part of our voyage so far. I invite you to keep following along, pull up a chair, and see where this next chapter of service leads us all.
Steady as she grows,
Meg
