From Black Thumb to Proud Plant Parent
Let’s be honest, I used to be a plant killer. I’m talking serial succulent assassin, notorious cactus crusher. My apartment housed a graveyard of well-intentioned greenery, each wilted leaf a testament to my horticultural ineptitude. But then, something changed. Maybe it was a global pandemic, maybe it was a quarter-life crisis, or maybe (just maybe) it was the irresistible allure of that perfectly plump fiddle leaf fig at the local nursery. Whatever the reason, I took the plunge, adopted my first “easy-care” plant (a snake plant named Severus, don’t judge), and embarked on my journey to plant parenthood.
The act of watering, of checking the soil moisture, of misting those delicate leaves—it became a meditative ritual. Suddenly, I wasn’t just keeping a plant alive, I was cultivating a sense of peace in my own life. Plus, there’s something deeply satisfying about watching a plant thrive under your care. It’s like, “Hey, I did that! I kept a living thing other than myself alive!”
Plants: The Ultimate Home Décor (That Doesn’t Require Assembly)
Let’s face it, my apartment décor could best be described as “early graduate school chic” (read: hand-me-down furniture and a distinct lack of style). But then came the plants.
Turns out, plants are like living, breathing sculptures. A trailing pothos here, a majestic monstera there—suddenly, my apartment went from drab to fab (or at least, less drab). Plus, unlike that cursed IKEA bookshelf, plants don’t require a PhD in engineering to assemble. Win-win!