The Blossom Bush Story explores a world not far from ours where care is transactional, and pain is profitable. Inspired by ecofeminist thought and the lived realities of women across the globe, this story asks:
What happens when we can no longer afford to heal?
Studies have found that women and children are far more likely to die during climate-related disasters than men. In response, this piece is rooted in the framework of ecofeminism, exploring how neoliberal systems contribute to environmental degradation in ways that reflect and reinforce a global pattern: One where patriarchal capitalism treats both nature and women’s bodies as expendable resources in the pursuit of profit and power.
The woman in this story isn’t alone. She is emblematic of the millions who are forced to labor through poisoned air, dwindling resources, and institutional neglect just to survive.
The allegory in this story reflects a deeper truth: The destruction of the Earth mirrors the deterioration of womanhood. The woman’s pain is not natural; it is a symptom of environmental collapse, economic control, and bodily exploitation, all in service of corporate gain. The mother of nature is murdered by her own children. The Blossom Bush may be fiction, but the air, the labor, the pain, and the profit? They are not.
The Blossom Bush Story
A woman prepared to give birth. Her body ached; her back trembled in pain. But she knew her pain could be remedied by the Earth, that the sharp ache she bore would ease once she took the Blossom Bush.
An ancient herb that once grew just outside the village.
The healing knowledge of the Blossom Bush had been passed down from her mother to her mother’s mother maybe even a cousin or two. They said it could calm storms in the belly and quiet the screaming breath. It soothes the gums of the newborn, clears the cough of the sick, settles the eyes of the tired. And for the woman, it is what would calm the ache of her womb. It once grew in soil, but it also grew in memory, in practice, in care.
The woman appeared in front of the doctor, clutching her swollen belly, breath shallow. She asked for the Blossom Bush, the herb her ancestors had used to ease labor.
The doctor did not examine her. He did not ask her name. He did not look her in the eye.
Instead, he shook his head. “There are no more Blossom Bushes.”
“Why?” she asked.
“They cut them down,” he said. “The men. They harvested them, ground them, settled them, bottled them and now they sell them.”
“But I am in pain,” she said.
The air had grown thicker in the last few months, and since then, she had felt her baby turn in sickness. Its kicks were not just kicks they were warnings.
The doctor nodded. “The Blossom Bushes cleaned the air. But they’re gone now. To breathe clean air, to ease your pain, you must buy the bush.”
“But I cannot afford the Blossom Bush,” she whispered.
“Then you must work,” the doctor replied.
“Where?” she asked. “I am pregnant.”
He smiled. “You can work at the Blossom Bush factory.”