Meet Shannon...

Before Fox Cottage Farm had a name, it had a feeling.

It was the feeling of following my grandfather through his rose garden in upstate New York — the quiet rhythm of his steps, the smell of earth and leaves, the way time seemed to stretch when you were outside tending something living.

That garden was my first classroom.
And flowers have been my language ever since.

Where It Began

Some of my earliest memories are of walking behind my grandfather as he moved through his garden, checking roses stem by stem. He didn’t rush. He noticed everything. I learned early that tending a garden wasn’t about control — it was about attention.

That sense of care stayed with me.

Even as life moved forward and changed shape, flowers remained a constant. They were familiar. Grounding. A place where my hands knew what to do even when my heart didn’t.

When Gardening Became Therapy

There were seasons when gardening stopped being a hobby and became something essential.

Through grief. Through loss. Through moments when the world felt unsteady and overwhelming, the garden gave me structure. It asked me to show up, even on hard days. To water. To observe. To wait.

Gardening became a way to process what couldn’t always be put into words. There is something profoundly healing about caring for something living while you’re learning how to carry your own weight again.

The garden didn’t fix anything — but it held space. And sometimes, that’s enough.

When the Garden Held Me

There were seasons when gardening became more than something I loved — it became something I leaned on.

Through divorce. Through the grief of paths that didn’t unfold as expected. Through the quiet heartbreak of not being able to have children. Through the loss of beloved pets who were family in every way that mattered. There were moments when life felt unrecognizable, and the garden was the one place that still made sense.

Gardening gave me something to return to when so much felt out of my control. It asked me to show up, even when I felt hollow or exhausted. To water. To wait. To notice small signs of life when big answers were nowhere to be found.

The garden didn’t rush my healing. It didn’t ask me to explain my grief or move past it. It simply offered structure, purpose, and a place to put my hands when my heart felt heavy.

Some seasons break you open. Others teach you how to keep going. The garden was there for both.

Living With What You Carry

I am a BRCA previvor.

That knowledge changed the way I understand my body, my future, and time itself. It sharpened my awareness of fragility — and also of resilience. When you live with that kind of knowing, you become deeply attuned to what matters and what doesn’t.

Flowers mirror that truth beautifully.

They are fleeting. They are strong. They require care, but they also insist on their own timing. Gardening taught me that you can be vigilant and still gentle. Prepared and still hopeful.

That balance became foundational — not just in how I grow, but in how I live.

Why I Grow the Way I Do

Fox Cottage Farm exists because I believe tending something well is an act of care — for ourselves and for others.

I grow seasonally because nature asks us to slow down.
I choose flowers like dahlias and peonies because they demand patience and reward attention.

I believe beauty doesn’t need to be rushed to be meaningful.

The field is shaped by observation, responsibility, and respect — for the land, for the plants, and for the people who interact with them.

Every decision reflects the same values I learned in that rose garden years ago: notice more, force less, and trust the process.

What I Hope You Feel Here

Fox Cottage Farm is meant to feel like an invitation.

An invitation to slow down.
To reconnect with something tangible.
To remember that beauty doesn’t need to be permanent to matter.

Whether you’re walking the field, picking flowers, growing dahlias at home, or simply following along from afar — this space is for you, too.

I’m so incredibly grateful you’re here.

— Shannon