Confessions of a Reformed Plant Killer (and Why You Should Join the Club!)
From Black Thumb to Proud Plant Parent
Let’s be honest, I wasn’t always a plant person. In fact, I was the human equivalent of a drought. My houseplants, bless their little stems, didn’t stand a chance. They wilted, they browned, they basically staged a silent protest against my neglect. It was a graveyard of good intentions, fertilized by my forgetfulness.
But then something changed. Maybe it was the pandemic, maybe it was a sudden surge of adulting, but I decided to give plants another go. And let me tell you, I was not prepared for the joyride that came with being a plant parent.
You guys, I’m not exaggerating when I say that witnessing a new leaf unfurl on my fiddle leaf fig was akin to seeing my firstborn child take their first steps. Okay, maybe a slight exaggeration, but the feeling was real!
Suddenly, I understood the hype. That tiny leaf wasn’t just a leaf, it was a symbol of hope, growth, and my newfound ability to keep something alive for longer than a week (sorry, goldfish from my childhood). It was a victory against my former plant-killing self, and I was officially hooked.
Plants: The Chillest Roommates You’ll Ever Have (Except for That One Time…)
Let’s face it, human roommates can be…a lot. They leave dirty dishes in the sink, steal your food, and have opinions about your questionable taste in reality TV. Plants, on the other hand? Low-maintenance, drama-free, and they’ll never judge your questionable life choices.
Except for that one time I almost killed my peace lily. You see, I thought I was being extra caring by giving it a generous amount of water. Emphasis on generous.
Cue the dramatic wilting, the drooping leaves, the panicked Google searches. It turns out, even the chillest roommates have their limits. Luckily, after some emergency plant CPR (aka letting the soil dry out completely), my peace lily forgave me. Crisis averted.
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