Candles vs. Roses

By: John Kazerooni

In love and life, we all must choose—

To hold on tight… or gently lose.

To be a candle, fierce and bright,

That burns with worry through the night—

Or be a rose, with petals wide,

Rooted deep… and full of pride.

Turning from the noise and shade,

Toward the light that love has made.

So let today be just the start

Of deeper roots… and open heart.

For love is not in what we own,

But in the peace that we have grown.

Though candles shine and serve us well,

Be like roses, calm and wise.

And if ever you’re tight, just let love guide you through conscious mind—

Not burn like candles, fierce and fast, but bloom like roses, made to last.

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Why I Wrote About “Candles vs. Roses”

There’s a quiet, unspoken contrast between candles and roses that mirrors the lives of many beautiful souls I’ve come to know—souls who work hard, give everything of themselves, and carry the invisible weight of the world on their shoulders. I wrote “Candles vs. Roses” not as a comparison between two objects, but as a metaphor for two ways of being, two emotional landscapes, and two contrasting fates that often coexist within one person.

Candles are steady and giving. They burn to bring light. They are useful, warm, and self-sacrificing. But in their very act of shining, they melt. They disappear gradually, unnoticed, their quiet suffering hidden behind their glow. Many people live like candles—especially those who love deeply, serve tirelessly, and think endlessly. Their minds replay each day’s events, wondering if they could’ve done more, said less, or fixed what was never theirs to fix. Rest does not come easily to them. Their peace is often postponed for the sake of others’ comfort.

Roses, on the other hand, bloom boldly. They are beautiful simply by being. They do not give light; they do not burn. But their presence can transform a room, uplift a mood, or soften a heart as much as candles do. Roses demand nothing and yet offer so much through their grace. They are a reminder of self-worth, self-love, and the power of existing without needing to justify it through labor or sacrifice. Roses value their existence and health. To them, without health, there can be no help to those in need.

But becoming a rose is not easy. The challenge lies in the illusion. On the outside, roses may seem effortless, serene, and graceful. But within many of them lies the same restlessness as the candle—the same overthinking, the same worries that gnaw at the edges of their well-being. But they don’t allow daily struggles to destroy them or burn them like a candle. The rose may look untouched, but its roots tremble under the weight of invisible storms. The pressure to appear strong, composed, and beautiful can itself be a challenge, especially when the heart is tired and the mind never quiets.

The truth is, many people don’t know how to be roses because they were never given permission to just be. Be what you are, and don’t exceed your expectations—especially when doing so causes you to drain and wither gradually. Even when they try, their inner world is still wired for vigilance. Their bodies may be still, but their thoughts race. They smile, but inside they worry—about their families, their responsibilities, their mistakes, their future. Over time, this dissonance takes its toll on their health. Sleep becomes fragmented or impossible. Anxiety settles into the body like an unwelcome tenant. And though they may no longer be burning like candles, they’re quietly withering—just as vulnerable, just as unseen.

I wrote this piece because I see so many candles and roses in the world—both overcome their challenges in different ways. This essay is not about choosing one over the other, but about finding the courage to pause. To listen. To ask: What do I need to feel whole? What does rest look like for me—not just physically, but emotionally, spiritually?

To all those who burn and all those who bloom: know that you are not alone. It is okay to rest. It is okay to not hold it all together. You are allowed to protect your peace, to tend to your own garden, to be soft and vulnerable. Whether you’re a candle or a rose—or something in between—your worth is not measured by how much you give, how much you carry, or how beautifully you pretend.

Your worth is. Always.

Questions We Should Ask Ourselves:

Do I see myself more as a candle or a rose—or perhaps as both at different times?

In what ways am I giving too much of myself without replenishing?

What are the signs in my body or mind that tell me I’m burning out or withering?

Have I been postponing rest or emotional healing in the name of responsibility or strength?

What would it look like for me to simply be—without guilt, without proving anything to anyone?

How can I create space in my life for both giving and receiving?

Who in my life might also be silently burning or withering—and how can I support them?

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