Legacy in Bloom: A Love Letter to Jade | AusCannaReviews
Seeds, Grief, and the Flower That Survived
I’ve been in a bit of a reflective mood this week. Could it be the lead-up to the Cannabiz Awards (no pressure, right?). Could it be the fact that next week marks my 75th flower review? (Which either means I’m very dedicated, or just really, really good at justifying the need to have a “rotation” to myself.) Either way, this post isn’t a traditional review. It’s a story. About Jade… a cultivar that’s stayed with me far longer than most. But it’s also about grief, memories, and the quiet ways cannabis weaves itself into our lives, not just as medicine, but as a witness.
She was there at the beginning… May 15, 2023. When the grinder was new, the plastic tub was full, and the world of legal medicinal cannabis was still unfolding before me.
Among the many cultivars I’ve welcomed, reviewed, and rotated, only Jade, an Indica-dominant cross of GG#4 and Blueberry Kush from Tasmanian Botanics, has remained.
My anchor. My old faithful.
But as she’s crept from 23% to 25%, now up to 27% THC, something’s changed. The sparkle I once knew, that soft floral scent mixed with pine, the gentle calm and social euphoria, feels muted.
Is it Jade who’s changed? Or is it me, chasing a feeling I’ve already outgrown?
It was the summer of 2006 in Vancouver, and I had a bag full of seeds… not just any seeds, but my first real attempt at playing breeder. I had crossed a resilient Hollands Hope female with the dankest Blueberry Kush male.
Nine out of the first batch of ten that I planted popped. I should’ve felt proud. Instead, I panicked. Where would I put them all? Laughable now, but at the time, I genuinely believed transplanting them on the side of Grouse Mountain off some random trail was an absolutely brilliant idea.
I wish I could tell you I grew the type of flowers that summer that made strangers gasp and friends go quiet. That I trimmed them by moonlight, cured them slowly, and lit them up with reverence.
But this isn’t that kind of story.
Back then, I was running myself ragged into the ground, desperately chasing anything to distract me from the weight I was carrying.
I was working at Red Robin as an Acting General Manager, preparing for our Brand Equity Review, the kind of inspection where head office shows up with white gloves, eagle eyes, and clipboards. They checked everything: every cracked tile, every decimal off in the food cost report, every second behind in your service cycle. It’s hell.
But we didn’t just pass… we set a national record! And I told myself it had been worth it. That the burnout was a badge of honour. That being too busy to feel was just part of being successful.
Funny, the lies we agree to live with.
By mid-July, I finally had some time to breathe and was so looking forward to a five-day camping trip on Vancouver Island. The day before I left, I hiked up Grouse to check on my girls. Seven stunning plants glowing in the alpine sun. Feminine. Fierce. Thriving. (Two had been eaten.)
I had no idea I was looking at them for the last time.
On the second morning of my camping trip, I was standing barefoot on the beach in Tofino, salty wind in my face, sand still cold from the night before, when the call came.
The one I’d been dreading for six years. My father was losing his fight with congestive heart failure, a final complication after a long, brutal battle with stage four lymphoma.
I needed to come. Now.
Tofino to Tennessee.
I scrambled to book the earliest flight I could, a mess of connections and long layovers.
As we were taxiing out on the runway in Las Vegas, my final connecting flight, lightning grounded us. A freak storm. By the time we landed and I turned my phone back on, I already knew.
The voicemail was waiting.
Just three words from my mum: He’s passed away.
I never got to say goodbye.
Maybe that’s why I’ve held on to Jade.
She’s more than just a flower in my rotation… She’s a thread that runs through every version of me I’ve been since that summer in 2006.
The hustler who poured herself into a restaurant job.
The dreamer who planted nine cannabis sprouts in alpine soil.
The daughter who didn’t make it home in time.
And the advocate I’m becoming, still piecing it all together, one review at a time.
And maybe it’s not just that she’s familiar.
Maybe it’s that she carries the same lineage… Blueberry Kush.
The same cultivar that pollinated my first-ever grow.
Back when I didn’t know what I was building, only that I had to try.
Before the reviews. Before the advocacy.
There was that seed. That cross. That spark.
Maybe Jade didn’t just stick around.
Maybe she’s been part of the blueprint all along.
A memory I forgot I planted.
This week, I’ll be in Melbourne for the Cannabis Awards — a finalist in the Best Education/Engagement Initiative category.
And I can’t help but think… my father would be proud.
Not just of the nomination, but of the path.
Of the way I’ve grown something out of the grief.
Of how I’ve found a way to serve, to speak, to honour.
Maybe Jade’s not as sparkly as she once was.
But neither am I, and I’m okay with that.
So here’s to Jade.
The one who stayed.
Through all the versions of me.
Through letting go and growing up.
She reminds me that not everything sacred has to sparkle.
Sometimes, it just has to survive.
And in that survival, there’s a legacy.
Thank you, Jade.
For helping me find my voice.
And for being there when I finally learned how to use it.
Know that if you’ve ever found healing in unexpected places… you’re not alone.
~ Christina 💚
🏆 PS: Wish me luck at the awards night on Thursday! 🤞
Such a powerful and emotive connection with a particular strain - truly moving. Thank you for sharing.
So lovely