Let’s be honest, before my descent into the wonderful world of plant parenthood, I was basically a houseplant assassin. I’d buy a perfectly healthy fern, give it a sunny spot, and promptly forget to water it for a month. Rinse and repeat (except the watering part, apparently).
My First Plant Baby (RIP, Ferdinand the Fiddle Leaf Fig)
My first foray into plant parenthood was a disaster, to put it mildly. I’d fallen for the siren song of Instagram, where everyone and their sourdough starter seemed to effortlessly cultivate lush indoor jungles. Surely, I, a functioning adult with opposable thumbs, could handle a simple houseplant, right? Enter Ferdinand the Fiddle Leaf Fig, a majestic specimen with leaves bigger than my head.
We had a good run, Ferdinand and I, a glorious two weeks. I misted his leaves religiously (misting is a myth, by the way), sang him off-key show tunes, and even considered starting a plant diary. Then, tragedy struck. One day, Ferdinand was his usual vibrant self; the next, he was drooping like a sad, leafy accordion. I panicked, Googled frantically (“Why is my fiddle leaf fig dying?!”), and promptly overwatered the poor thing in a misguided attempt to save him.
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