Gathered Goodness: Becoming the Family Historian From Family Reunion to Floral Storytelling: The Legacy Work

September has been a month to remember. It’s been full of changes, pivots, and lessons that I couldn’t have planned, but one thing keeps circling back in my spirit: you can’t go forward until you heal what’s behind you.

A few weeks ago, I picked up the phone and called my cousin. I told her, plain and simple, “I want to plan a family reunion.” This summer I saw so many Black families hosting theirs, and I even had the chance to attend one with my ex. The laughter, the matching shirts, the old school music, the kids running around—it stirred something in me. I didn’t just want that joy for myself, I wanted it for my mother’s side of the family.

But as I started dreaming of the picnic tables, BBQ smoke, and storytelling circles, I realized something deeper: no one has ever truly done the work of becoming the historian for our family. We know the immediate history—the stories of our parents, grandparents, maybe a few greats—but beyond that, the bones of our family tree are still buried. And something in me said, Ronisha, it’s time to dig.

I am the granddaughter of Louella Burkes and Cornelius Johnson Sr., the only child from Ronald Levy Sr. and Samella Johnson. One of my earliest memories takes me back to being four or five years old, visiting my mom’s mother at a senior living facility. I remember being absolutely infatuated with the table lamp in her room. I would reach for it every time, and each time my grandmother would slap my little hand away. But one day, she didn’t stop me. She let me touch it, and I burned myself. That was the first lesson I ever learned: some things you only understand by getting close enough to feel the heat.

And isn’t that the same with family? If you’ve ever tried to move forward, you know you’ll eventually be pulled back. Think about a boomerang or a slingshot. There is no way around it—you have to embrace the past in order to step into the future.

Here I am, on this journey not only to understand and heal me but also my family as a whole. Growing up, we never visited my grandparents’ extended family. My grandfather passed away in early 1985, months before I was even born that summer. I never met him, but I carry his name and legacy. My grandmother, though, I remember vividly—the sharpness, the lessons, the presence.

On my father’s side? I have never met them. Not one of them. That reality still sits heavy with me. In fact, I know more about my stepfather’s family than I do about my own father’s bloodline. That gap in knowledge, that empty space, has been fertile ground for imposter syndrome. How do you claim your place in the world when you don’t even know the fullness of the soil you came from?

And then the question hit me: How do I fully step into the role of a floral storyteller if I don’t even know the full story? Let’s consider that for a moment. That’s wild work. But maybe that’s the assignment—to do the gathering, to piece the petals back to the roots. To learn where the story starts so I can tell it in fullness, through flowers, through tables, through gatherings. Before I can tell the world’s stories, I have to start with my own.

Even as I write this in real time, I just discovered something that shook me: my grandfather, in the 1950s, was a flower man for the City of Memphis. A whole flower man. Here I am decades later, stepping into my calling as a floral storyteller, thinking I’m building something brand new—only to realize I’m walking in a path that was planted long before me. The roots really do run deep. The flowers have always been in the bloodline.

The hardest part about this journey is digging up the past to expose the roots. Allowing breath back into the family tree. Allowing generational curses to be broken so that the healing can finally begin. And as I write this, all I can hear in my head is the O’Jays singing “Family Reunion.” It feels like a scene straight out of Queen Sugar—the kind that makes you cry because it’s too close to home. So many things we think we know, and yet we have no clue. But here’s what I do know: I want so much more for my family. I want us to achieve more, heal more, love more, live more. And this—this work of gathering, remembering, and telling—is the beginning of so much more for me, and for them.

The more work I do on myself—the more I heal, the more I embrace intentional living—the more I realize this isn’t a burden. It’s an assignment. It’s legacy work. So I’ve appointed myself the family historian. Not because I have all the answers, but because I am committed to asking the questions.

This is intentional living, too. Family is where the table begins. It’s not just about flowers, food, or fellowship in the present, it’s about knowing the roots you came from. The Gathered Goodness of September has reminded me that our roots matter. And if we want to stand tall, bloom fully, and pass on something beautiful to the next generation, we’ve got to heal, record, and celebrate what’s behind us.

So here I am, stepping into the role of historian for the Johnson family. Nervous? Yes. Overwhelmed? A little. But more than that, I am grateful—because this is holy work. This is table work. This is legacy work.

Here’s to family. Here’s to history. Here’s to gathered goodness.

Every flower I design, every arrangement I create, is rooted in this same work of remembering, healing, and celebrating. When you purchase flowers from me, you’re not just buying petals — you’re buying a piece of a story. A reminder that even when roots are buried, they can bloom again.

👉 [Shop Petals & Cheers Arrangements Here]