Confessions of a Reformed Plant Killer (And Why You Should Totally Join the Club)
From Black Thumb to Proud Plant Parent
Let’s be honest, I wasn’t always a plant person. In fact, I used to be infamous for my “black thumb.” My apartment resembled a plant graveyard, littered with the ghosts of succulents past and the withered remains of over-watered ferns. I swore off plant parenthood, convinced that my destiny lay in plastic replicas and the occasional bouquet of supermarket flowers.
Then, something changed. Maybe it was a global pandemic that forced me to confront the four walls of my apartment. Maybe it was a desperate attempt to inject some life (literally) into my space. Whatever the reason, I adopted a scraggly little peace lily from the discount shelf at the grocery store, fully expecting it to meet the same fate as its predecessors.
But here’s the thing: it didn’t die. In fact, it thrived. And as I nurtured that little plant, I discovered a whole world of unexpected joys that came with being a plant parent.
