Isabel Flores de Oliva was born in Lima in 1586, but to the city she became known as Rosa. The name came in childhood, when neighbors noticed how her face glowed under a rosebush, as if she were more flower than child. The name stayed with her all her life, and she embraced it as her calling. People remembered her eyes first-dark, steady, and serious, as though she were always looking at something beyond reach. Her skin was pale, like the blossoms of the lime tree, and her beauty was marked by restraint rather than vanity. Around her forehead she wore a crown of thorns hidden beneath roses, a sign that blended pain with sweetness. During the day she lived like any other daughter, sewing fine lace to help her parents. But her private life was marked by discipline and devotion.

She spent long nights in prayer, sometimes kneeling on broken pottery, fasting until morning. Children in the neighborhood claimed they saw a light around her face when she prayed in the garden. Despite her strict habits, Rosa was not distant. She spoke gently, in a voice that drew people close, and she worked tirelessly for the poor. She cared for the sick, carried them in her arms, and treated wounds others refused to touch. To those in need she was a friend; to the proud she was a challenge; to her city she became both fragile in body and unshakable in spirit. Rosa died at the young age of thirty-one. Her passing plunged Lima into mourning.

The church bells rang without stopping, shutters were closed, and crowds gathered outside her family's house, hoping to see her one last time. People said roses bloomed out of season that day, falling across the streets like a final gift. She was later canonized as the first saint of the Americas, remembered not only for her visions but for a life of service, sacrifice, and quiet strength.