People ask me what a typical day looks like. The honest answer is that no two days are the same, which is exactly why I love this work. But if you pressed me, here is a Thursday in early spring, the kind of day that feels like the reason I became a florist.
The studio sits on a quiet road in the Hudson Valley, in a converted barn that we've been slowly making our own over the past four years. It has twelve-foot ceilings, north-facing windows that flood the workspace with soft, even light, and a walk-in cooler that we built into what was once a horse stall. The walls are plaster and old wood. There is always music playing, and there is always at least one bucket of something blooming by the door.
I arrive most mornings around 6:30, before anyone else. This is my quiet hour. I make coffee in the small kitchen at the back, walk through the cooler to check on the flowers that came in the day before, and spend twenty minutes at my desk reviewing the week ahead. I keep a handwritten notebook for this. Not because I'm old-fashioned, but because writing by hand forces me to slow down and think about each project as a composition, not a checklist.
Morning The Market and the Cooler
On Tuesdays and Thursdays, I drive to the flower market. In spring, this means leaving the studio around 5:00 AM to reach the wholesaler by 6:00. I walk the aisles the way I imagine a chef walks through a farmers market. slowly, looking at everything, touching the petals, checking the stems. I have my client orders in mind, but I also leave room for discovery. Some of the most beautiful arrangements I've ever made started with a single stem I didn't plan to buy.
Back at the studio by 8:30, the team is arriving. We unload the van, sort the stems, and begin processing. Processing is the unglamorous heart of floristry: re-cutting stems at an angle, removing lower foliage, sorting by variety and color, conditioning in clean water with flower food. It takes about two hours, and it is the single most important step. A beautifully designed bouquet means nothing if the flowers aren't properly hydrated.
Midday Design Hours
By late morning, the studio shifts from logistics to creation. This is the part that drew me to this work in the first place. I pull the buckets for whichever project is next, lay out the vessels, and begin. The bench is wide and worn. There are clippers, wire, tape, and three different sizes of water tubes within arm's reach. The radio switches from news to jazz, and for the next few hours, the only conversation is between me and the flowers.
Today I'm building mock-ups for a June wedding. The bride wants a garden-style bouquet in blush and cream, with trailing elements and plenty of texture. I start with the greenery, as always, and work outward. Three attempts. The first is too tight. The second lacks movement. The third finds the balance. I photograph it, send it to the couple, and set it in water to see how it holds overnight.
Between designs, there are emails. Client proposals, vendor confirmations, a question from a workshop attendee about dahlia tubers. I try to batch my inbox into two blocks per day. one at 11:00, one at 3:00. The rest of the time, the phone stays on the shelf. Floristry demands focus. You cannot design something beautiful while simultaneously answering a text about delivery logistics.
"The best work happens when the world goes quiet and the only thing in front of you is a bucket of flowers and a blank vessel. That silence is where the design lives."
Afternoon The Rhythm of the Studio
Afternoons are different every day. Mondays are for consultations, either in person at the studio or over video call. I love these conversations. Couples arrive with Pinterest boards and torn magazine pages and stories about their grandmothers' gardens. My job is to listen, distill, and translate their feeling into flowers. It is part design, part therapy, part detective work.
Wednesdays are for administrative work. ordering supplies, reconciling invoices, updating the project calendar. It is not the romantic part of running a studio, but it is the foundation that keeps everything else standing. I've learned, slowly, that being a good florist and being a good business owner are two different skills, and both require practice.
Thursdays and Fridays are prep days for weekend events. By Thursday afternoon, the studio is humming. Boutonnieres are pinned and labeled. Centerpiece vessels are lined up on the long table. The cooler is organized by event, each shelf clearly marked. My assistant and I run through the production list one final time, checking every detail against the original proposal.
Evening Closing the Studio
By 5:00 or 6:00, the studio begins to settle. The buckets are topped off. The bench is wiped clean. The floor is swept. I take one last walk through the cooler, checking water levels and giving a gentle mist to anything that's looking thirsty. This is a ritual I never skip. The flowers need tending the way a garden does. with regularity, attention, and care.
Before I lock up, I stand in the middle of the studio and look around. This is not something I planned to do. it just became a habit. There is something about a clean studio, full of flowers and quiet light, that resets everything. Whatever the day held. a difficult client email, a stem that broke at the wrong moment, a design that didn't come together on the first try. it dissolves in that last quiet moment.
The truth of it What This Work Really Requires
People see the finished arrangements. The arches draped in jasmine, the bridal bouquets glowing in golden-hour photographs, the tablescapes that make guests reach for their phones. What they don't see is the 5:00 AM market run. The bruised thumbs. The three versions of a bouquet that went into the compost before the fourth one worked. The hours spent in a cold cooler, on your feet, doing the same careful cuts hundreds of times.
This work is physical. It is repetitive. It is seasonal in a way that means your busiest, most exhausting months are the same months that everyone else is on vacation. And I would not trade it for anything.
Because there is a moment, usually on a Saturday evening, when the ceremony arch is in place and the last boutonniere is pinned and the candles are lit and the flowers are doing exactly what you asked them to do. there is a moment when you step back and the whole room takes a breath. That moment is worth every early morning and every aching shoulder. That is the day in the life that matters.
Aurelie, Hudson Valley, March 2026
