What 'Wild Things' Means to Me

There’s something sacred about wild things.

Not just the ones that grow beyond fences, but the ones that live inside us—the unkept, the untamed, the parts of ourselves we don’t prune or polish. The wild things are the truths we carry deep in our bones. They’re the memories, the messes, the griefs, and the joys that make us human. And for me, they’re the heart of this little business called Momma Bear’s Wild Things.

When I first started creating with flowers and herbs, it wasn’t part of some master plan. It was survival. My hands needed something to hold when my heart was breaking. My spirit needed somewhere to go when the world felt too quiet. And the earth—steady and generous—offered up petals, roots, and leaves. I began pressing flowers the way some people pray, making art the way some people scream. I wasn’t trying to build a brand. I was trying to remember how to breathe.

But slowly, something beautiful started growing.

I realized that these pieces and small batches—the ones made from thistles and thyme, from sun-warmed clover and brittle stems of lavender—held more than just aesthetic value. They held stories. They held seasons. They held grief and grit and grace. They were tributes to the wildness of love, the kind that doesn’t follow a straight line. The kind that says: even when it hurts, even when it breaks, I am still here.

That’s what Momma Bear’s Wild Things is really about. It’s not just about jewelry or herb blends or what comes next. It’s not just about handmade goods or nature-inspired gifts. It’s about remembering that we are nature. That the cycles of blooming and withering, of seed and decay, live in us too.

The name came to me like a whisper.

Momma Bear—because grief made me fierce. Because losing my child made me grow claws I didn’t know I had. Because mothering doesn’t end when a child dies. It transforms. It digs in. It protects memory like a cave of gold.

And Wild Things—because nothing I make is factory-perfect. Nothing here is mass-produced or average. The wild things I work with are crooked, soft, strong, spiky, and delicate. Like people. Like love. Like loss.

Everything I create starts with a walk. Sometimes through woods. Sometimes through memories. I gather what calls to me: a sprig of yarrow, a forgotten feather, a dried blossom hanging on from last season. These aren’t just materials. They’re messages. They remind me that beauty doesn’t always look like a bouquet. Sometimes it looks like survival.

That’s why I press flowers the way I do. Not just for their color or shape—but to honor the fact that they were alive. That they once opened themselves to the sun. That even when they fade, they leave something behind.

Same goes for my spice blends. I don’t mix them like a science experiment. I mix them like a song—listening to what each one wants to bring to the table. Some offer warmth. Some offer strength. Some offer sweetness or spice or a soft sort of sadness. Together, they tell a story.

People ask me sometimes: What are “wild things,” exactly?

And I say: they’re the parts of life that don’t follow the rules. The dandelions in the cracks. The tears you don’t explain. The love that keeps blooming even when the person is gone.

They’re the hands that make something out of what’s been broken. The heart that keeps beating even when it’s shattered. They’re the way grief softens you and strengthens you at the same time.

They’re the songs that don’t rhyme. The seasons that come early or late. The laughter in a kitchen that’s seen its fair share of sorrow.

They’re you. They’re me.

They’re all the parts of us that refuse to be tamed.

And I think that’s beautiful.

So if you ever find yourself holding a piece from Momma Bear’s Wild Things—whether it’s a necklace with a pressed petal from your wedding bouquet, a blend of herbs that smells like your grandmother’s garden, or a seasonal ornament made with cedar and love (those are coming this fall!)—I hope it reminds you that your story matters. That your love matters. That even the wild, unpolished parts of life are worth celebrating.

Especially those.

Because the wild things don’t ask for permission to bloom. They don’t wait for the world to be ready. They just grow.

And in their growing, they remind us that we can too.