In the garden of Becoming Herrss, the wildflower is more than a symbol. She is memory, prayer, and proof of every Black woman who bloomed when no one watered her. She grows in places she was never meant to survive, cracks in concrete, soil that forgot her name, and still, she rises. This movement was born from that kind of becoming. From the ache of women who carried too much in silence. From the softness we were told was weakness. From the wisdom that lives in our wounds.