From Black Thumb to… Well, Slightly Less Brown
Let’s be honest, I have a graveyard of succulents haunting my dreams. I’m the person who can kill a cactus with a single, loving glance. So, naturally, I decided to become a plant parent. Because what’s life without a little self-inflicted chaos, right?
Turns out, this whole plant parenting thing is a wild ride. It’s a rollercoaster of emotions, ranging from the pure, unadulterated joy of watching a new leaf unfurl to the soul-crushing despair of finding your favorite fern crispier than a potato chip. But amidst the carnage, I’ve discovered some unexpected joys.
The Thrill of Keeping a Plant (Almost) Alive
Remember that feeling when you aced a test you thought you bombed? That’s me, every time I manage to keep a plant alive for more than a month. It’s a rush! Suddenly, I’m a botanical genius, strutting around my apartment like I’ve single-handedly solved world hunger.
My crowning achievement? My peace lily, Phil. He’s been thriving for almost a year now, despite my best efforts to drown him on a weekly basis. He’s basically the plant equivalent of a cockroach—indestructible and slightly terrifying.
