Granville Island had been in the back of my mind for years.
If you make things by hand, you can't help it. You visit once, walk through the market, and quietly think to yourself, "I wish I could sell here someday."
I had that thought too.
And then COVID happened. Applications closed, everything paused, and "someday" just stayed there… waiting.
Years passed.
Then in February 2025, applications finally reopened. I applied, went through the review process, and got accepted.
It still didn't feel real.
The Night Before
Once my first market date was confirmed, the nerves started to creep in.
I had sold flowers at a craft show before, but this was different. Back then, I had other products — things to fill the table. This time, it was just flowers.
Only flowers.
I kept asking myself the same questions: Will people like them? Is this enough? Am I ready for this?
The night before, I couldn't stop.
I arranged the flowers, stepped back, rearranged them again. I imagined the table layout in my head, then changed everything. Then changed it again.
By the time I looked at the clock, it was 4 AM.
I barely slept. But strangely, I didn't feel defeated. I felt… alert. Like something important was about to begin.
The First Day
When the market opened, I stood behind my table, not quite knowing what to do with myself.
And then something small — but everything — happened.
People slowed down.
They didn't just pass by. They stopped. They leaned in. They picked up the flowers, touched them, and smiled.
That moment — the very first moment someone reached for one of my flowers — everything inside me softened.
The response was warmer than I had expected. Much warmer.
I don't remember much after that. The day moved quickly, almost like I was watching it from a distance.
A Bouquet I Still Remember
There's one moment from that day that stayed with me.
A woman chose a large bouquet and told me she was taking it to her daughter's concert. It was the first large bouquet I had ever made for a customer at Granville Island.
I remember handing it to her.
And then watching her walk away with it.
Something shifted in me right then — not dramatically, but quietly.
This wasn't just something I made.
It was going somewhere. Into someone's day. Into a memory I would never see, but somehow still be part of.
These flowers don't wilt.
And maybe, in a small way, that moment won't either.