“Roses do not bloom hurriedly; for beauty, like any masterpiece, takes time to blossom.”
- Matshona Dhliwayo
This year began in a place I didn’t expect - burnt out, uncertain, and questioning whether I wanted to continue my business at all.
I had hit a creative wall. The work felt heavy. I felt disconnected from the joy that had once pulled me toward making in the first place. Somewhere along the way, the rhythm I loved had been replaced by pressure, and I wasn’t sure how to find my way back.
And then, almost unexpectedly, a name came to me.
Rosarium.
It means a garden of roses. A space tended with care. A place where beauty and resilience coexist. It felt like a return - not to something new, but to something true.
Rebranding was a leap. It asked me to trust my instincts at a moment when I didn’t fully trust myself. But the more I sat with it, the more it felt like a reclamation. A way of realigning my work with what actually brings me joy: texture, slowness, intention, and the quiet devotion of making something well.
Behind the scenes from our photo shoot at Portland's International Rose Test Garden.
And then, just as I was finding my footing, everything accelerated.
Our rain hats and bonnets took on a life of their own. What had been a slow, uncertain year suddenly surged into weeks of nonstop work. Orders poured in - nearly two thirds of our usual annual volume arriving all at once. It was both exhilarating and overwhelming.
For six weeks, I worked without a day off. Cutting, sewing, coordinating production, answering emails, packing and shipping orders. Every hour of my day already spoken for. Every ounce of energy accounted for. It tested me physically and emotionally, and it forced me to confront something I’ve long struggled with: my instinct to do everything myself.
Some scenes from the studio recently - the production of our Cirrus Rain Hat
I’ve always been a perfectionist, especially when it comes to quality. Letting others help - truly trusting them with my vision - required a kind of surrender I wasn’t used to. But in that intensity, I learned something essential: I don’t have to carry everything alone. Collaboration doesn’t dilute care; it can deepen it.
That period also sharpened something else - clarity. About what I don’t want to return to. About the cost of constant self-reliance. About the difference between growth and strain.
One moment stands out to me now. Early on, I sat down to write a list of possible names for the rebrand. I was thinking about gardens, about heritage, about beauty that feels lived-in rather than ornamental. My maternal grandmother grew up in the Yorkshire countryside, and I’ve always been drawn to English gardens - their abundance, their softness, their refusal to be overly controlled.
When I wrote down the word Rosarium, it stopped me. Roses have always been my favorite to grow - resilient, thorned, generous in bloom. They hold contradiction with grace. Beauty and protection. Fragility and strength.
That duality feels deeply aligned with slow fashion. Creating something beautiful from discarded materials. Honoring craft in a world that often devalues it. Continuing to make thoughtfully in systems that rarely reward slowness.
Looking ahead, I want to protect that care. I want to grow without flattening what makes this work meaningful. Capitalism teaches us that success means scale, but I’m learning that growth can also mean refinement. Intention. Choosing not to rush.
As we move into the new year, I’m holding close the belief that objects made with care carry that care forward. That what we make - and how we make it - matters. That there is room for beauty that asks us to slow down, to feel, to tend.
Thank you for being here, for supporting this work, and for allowing it to evolve with honesty.
With gratitude,
Lindsey
Rosarium
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