07/27/2026
The Story Behind Touch of Marigold
🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼
Every business has a story.
Mine begins long before massage.
Long before licenses, certifications, or treatment rooms.
It begins with two flowers.
One taught me how to survive.
The other taught me why.
Years ago, someone shared with me the story of Marigold from the retelling of the Midas myth. While many remember the king who could turn everything he touched into gold, I found myself captivated by the daughter.
To me, the story was never about wealth.
It was about what wealth could never replace.
A father who could no longer embrace the one he loved because everything he touched became an object. Gold had become more important than connection. Power had replaced presence. Possession had replaced relationship.
That story settled somewhere deep within me because it gave words to something I had always believed.
Not everything that glitters is precious.
Money has never impressed me if it comes at the cost of kindness. Success has never meant much if there is no one left to share it with. You cannot purchase genuine love. You cannot buy trust. You cannot buy peace. You cannot buy the feeling of being truly seen.
The most valuable things in this world have never carried a price tag.
Then, during one of the darkest seasons of my life, another story found me.
🌹 The rose that grew from concrete. 🌹
A simple image, yet one that became impossible to forget.
Everyone admires the rose.
Very few stop to wonder what the concrete cost it.
There was a time when my own life felt like concrete.
The end of a relationship that had shaped me into someone I didn’t recognize.
The loss of my father.
The constant load of having to care for and provide for my girls regardless of what I was going through.
The overwhelming feeling that I no longer recognized the life I was standing in.
It felt as though everything familiar had crumbled beneath me, leaving only questions.
But flowers have a remarkable way of teaching us.
The rose never waited for perfect soil.
It simply reached toward the light.
Looking back now, I realize I wasn’t growing despite the concrete.
I was growing because of it.
Every crack became a place where light could enter.
Every heartbreak softened something within me that later allowed me to sit beside someone else’s pain without trying to fix it.
Those seasons did not make me bitter.
They made me present.
Long before I became a massage therapist, I knew I was drawn toward healing that reached far beyond the physical body. But at that time, the language of energy, intuition, and holistic healing wasn’t easily understood by the people around me.
So I chose another doorway.
I learned anatomy.
I earned my license.
I built trust one session at a time.
Massage became the language people were willing to hear.
But it was never the destination.
It was the bridge.
People often arrive believing they are seeking relief from tight shoulders, headaches, or chronic pain.
Sometimes they are.
But often, what they truly need is a place where they no longer have to hold everything together.
A place where silence feels safe.
Where tears don’t require an apology.
Where laughter returns unexpectedly.
Where someone reminds them—without ever having to say the words—that they are allowed to take up space.
That they matter.
That they have always mattered.
Touch of Marigold was never created to turn people into something better.
It exists to help people remember they were never broken to begin with.
The rose reminds me that beauty can grow from impossible places.
The marigold reminds me that nothing—not wealth, success, status, or fear—should ever become more important than our ability to truly love, connect, and remain fully alive.
Together, they have become the foundation of my work.
Every person who walks through my door carries a story.
Some wear it openly.
Others have spent years hiding it beneath smiles, responsibilities, or survival.
My hope is that when they leave, they don’t simply feel better.
They leave remembering something they may have forgotten long ago.
That healing isn’t about becoming someone new.
It’s about finding your way back to the person you were before life convinced you that you weren’t enough.
That is the heart of Touch of Marigold.
Not perfect bodies.
Not endless productivity.
Not polished appearances.
Just people.
Learning, little by little, that they were worthy all along.
