Once upon a time, in a land full of ugly buildings and greyer ideas, I stumbled upon something that would change my life forever: tuberose.

Now, I know what you’re thinking—tuberose? Is it some kind of fancy tube-shaped pasta?
A new medical condition?

Nope! It’s a flower. But not just any flower. This one has a scent so powerful that the faint-hearted should just keep right on walking. I’m talking “intoxicating like a potion,” “mystical like an elixir,” and strong enough to turn heads…or make them faint.

My father, treated it like it was the most dangerous substance in the world, “Keep that tuberose out of the house!” he’d warn, as if one whiff might flatten him.

The thing is, that was exactly the point. Tuberose was extra. Exotic. And my life was seriously lacking in “extra.” It was like the universe knew I needed a little “too much” to escape the ugliness of our so-called “communist utopia.”

So here’s how it all went.

I was 18, young and blissfully unaware of tuberose’s superpowers, thanks to our flower market’s usual lineup of roses, carnations, and the occasional lily.

But one day, that market changed. As I strolled through the rows of blooms that summer, there it was: tuberose. Beautiful and with an amazing smell, stacked in white and yellow bunches.

Now, that summer wasn’t just “the summer of tuberose.” It was also the summer of my first love.

The two went together like coffee and cream, or, in my case, like tuberose and tobacco (it was a communist country, after all). I was fresh off a couple of weeks at the beach, skin bronzed like a chocolate bar, looking like I was made of gold and sea spray.

The tuberose had a creamy yellow-white color, like pale butter, but the fragrance? Oh, it was next-level. People were practically tripping over themselves when I walked by with my flowers. It was “too much,” but the good kind of too much—the kind that makes you feel like you own the world.

And then there was him. Twice my height, twice my weight (mind you, I was only 49 kg, small but mighty). When he stood next to me, he blocked out the sun with his shadow. And I covered him with the intense cloud of tuberose. We were ridiculous together. Too much perfume, too much love, just too much. But that’s the beauty of first love, isn’t it? The whole point is to be a little outrageous, to make people look twice and maybe roll their eyes a bit.

I haven’t smelled tuberose flowers since that summer, and it’s been 40 years. That’s right, 40 years without that bold, intoxicating scent. Sometimes I think I stayed away from it on purpose. It was too closely tied to his memory, to a time when everything was bright colorful and happy and too much in the best way. And then life got complicated, the years rolled on, and the beautifullness faded into the background.

Fast forward to today.

I’m sitting here now in a life so mind-numb and boring it makes me want to scream. I need my tuberose scent back, that fearless, intoxicating part of me that isn’t afraid to stand out. Because that’s who I am—I’m a bit of “too much.”

The kind of person who isn’t here to be small or easygoing. I’m here to take up space, to be remembered. And if you can’t handle me with care, love, and a bit of honesty, then kindly step aside. I’ve got no time to be “just enough” for people who wouldn’t notice if I suffer.

So here’s my advice to all the women out there: Wear your tuberose scent.

Be that bold scent that turns heads, that fierce flower who knows she’s worth. Don’t wait 40 years to realize that, you’re a bit “too much” in all the best ways.

Life’s too short to worry about not fitting in. Embrace it, because, let’s be real, if you’re “too much” for them? They’re just not enough for you.