Just Relaxed Blog

Tag: Personal Essay

  • The Unexpected Life Lessons I Learned from a Houseplant

    The Unexpected Life Lessons I Learned from a Houseplant



    Let’s be honest, I’m not exactly known for my green thumb. In fact, my history with plants is more accurately described as a graveyard of well-intentioned purchases. So, when my friend gifted me a sprightly little peace lily for my birthday, I accepted it with a mix of gratitude and trepidation.

    Little did I know, this unassuming houseplant, which I optimistically named Ferdinand, would end up teaching me more about life than any self-help book ever could.

    From Brown Thumb to Budding Plant Parent

    My journey with Ferdinand started out rocky, to say the least. I managed to overwater him within the first week, turning his once vibrant green leaves into a droopy, yellow mess. I was ready to admit defeat, convinced I was a plant-killing machine. But then, a funny thing happened.

    I confessed my horticultural sins to my friend, a true plant whisperer, expecting judgment. Instead, she burst out laughing. “Oh honey,” she chuckled, “plants are dramatic, but they’re also forgiving. Just give him some space, less water, and he’ll bounce back.”

    Ferdinand was back to his vibrant self! That’s when I learned my first lesson: We all make mistakes, but with a little patience and the willingness to learn, we can recover and grow stronger.

    Finding Growth Outside My Comfort Zone

    As the months went by, I settled into a comfortable routine with Ferdinand. I learned to read his subtle cues—drooping leaves meant he was thirsty, while a slight tilt meant he was reaching for more light. I even started talking to him (don’t judge, we all have our quirks!).

    Then came the day I accidentally knocked him off the windowsill. I was horrified! One minute, Ferdinand was basking in the afternoon sun, the next he was sprawled across the floor, pot shattered, soil scattered everywhere. “This is it,” I thought, “I’ve finally finished him off.”

    But as I surveyed the damage, I noticed something surprising. Despite the tumble, Ferdinand’s leaves were still green and perky. He was a little worse for wear, but he was alive! With a newfound determination, I repotted him, giving him fresh soil and a cozy new home on my bookshelf.

    To my amazement, Ferdinand not only survived the fall, he thrived! He sprouted new leaves and seemed happier than ever in his new spot. That’s when I learned my second lesson: Sometimes, being shaken out of our comfort zones can lead to unexpected growth and resilience.

    The Power of Patience and a Little Green Therapy

    It’s been a few years since Ferdinand came into my life, and in that time, he’s gone from a near-death experience to a thriving symbol of perseverance. He’s taught me the importance of patience, forgiveness, and adapting to change.

  • The Surprisingly Deep Thoughts I Have While Doing Laundry

    The Surprisingly Deep Thoughts I Have While Doing Laundry

    From Socks to Sartre: Finding Philosophy in the Laundry Basket

    Let’s be honest, folding laundry isn’t exactly the most thrilling activity. In fact, it often feels like a never-ending cycle of wash, dry, repeat. But recently, while sorting through a mountain of mismatched socks (seriously, where does the other half go?!), I had a sudden realization: laundry is a metaphor for life. Okay, maybe not life in its entirety, but definitely for some of its more perplexing aspects.

    Laundry Mystery for the Ages

    Take the aforementioned sock dilemma, for example. It’s a universal truth that socks vanish into a mysterious abyss, never to be reunited with their partners. This, my friends, is a profound philosophical quandary. Do these missing socks represent the incompleteness we all feel in some way? Are they a metaphor for the fleeting nature of relationships? Or maybe, just maybe, there’s a mischievous sock monster living in my dryer, hoarding them for its own nefarious purposes. (Okay, that last one might be a stretch, but you have to admit it’s a possibility!)

    Stain Removal: A Metaphor for Life’s Little Messes

    And then there’s stain removal. Ah yes, the art of battling stubborn blotches with an arsenal of sprays, powders, and pre-treatments. It’s a delicate dance between patience, persistence, and the sheer will to not let that rogue spaghetti sauce stain win. But you know what? Stain removal isn’t just about saving your favorite shirt from a tragic end. It’s about confronting life’s little messes head-on. It’s about learning to adapt, problem-solve, and emerge victorious (or at least with a slightly less noticeable stain).

  • The Great Sock Drawer Debacle: Or, Why I’m Officially Out of Matches (Again)

    The Great Sock Drawer Debacle: Or, Why I’m Officially Out of Matches (Again)




    The Great Sock Drawer Debacle: Or, Why I’m Officially Out of Matches (Again)


    The Case of the Vanishing Stripes

    Let me set the scene: It’s 6:45 AM, my alarm is blaring an obnoxious pop song, and I’m already running late. I stumble to my dresser, yank open the drawer, and stare into the abyss that is my sock collection. It’s a jumbled mess of mismatched colors and patterns, each sock seemingly mocking my inability to find its mate.

    sock society where they meet up and laugh at our laundry woes? I’m convinced there’s a portal in my dryer leading directly to the Lost Sock Dimension.

    The Suspects: Who’s Stealing My Socks?

    Over the years, I’ve developed a few theories about the great sock disappearance. Allow me to present the usual suspects:

    1. The Laundry Monster: This mythical creature lurks in the depths of washing machines, snatching socks with its slimy tentacles and dragging them into the abyss. (Don’t tell me you haven’t heard the stories!)
    2. The Sock Goblin: This mischievous imp sneaks into homes under the cover of night, swapping socks and leaving behind a trail of chaos. (I blame him for the time I accidentally wore one striped sock and one polka-dot sock to work.)
    3. The Fabric Vortex: This scientific anomaly (okay, maybe not) explains how socks mysteriously teleport themselves to a parallel universe where everyone has perfectly matched socks. (I’m not bitter…much.)
  • The Unexpected Life Lessons I Learned from a Houseplant

    The Unexpected Life Lessons I Learned from a Houseplant





    The Unexpected Life Lessons I Learned from a Houseplant

    My Thumb Went from Black to... Slightly Less Black

    Let's be honest, I'm about as far from a "plant person" as you can get. My idea of plant care involved a hopeful glance every few days and a splash of water when I remembered (which, let's be real, wasn't often). So, when my well-intentioned friend gifted me a peace lily for my birthday, I accepted it with a smile and a healthy dose of internal panic.

    I mean, what did I know about keeping something alive? I was basically a plant grim reaper, leaving a trail of wilted basil and crispy succulents in my wake. But, determined to prove I wasn't a complete botanical disaster, I decided to give this whole plant parenting thing a shot. Little did I know, my journey with Percy the Peace Lily (yes, I named him) would teach me more than just how to keep a plant alive.

    Plant Care)

    Oh, sweet summer child, I was in for a rude awakening. Used to instant gratification and the fast pace of city life, I expected Percy to flourish overnight. I envisioned a lush, green oasis in my living room, all thanks to my newfound plant prowess.

    Instead, Percy remained stubbornly...Percy. No dramatic growth spurts, no instant jungle vibes. Just steady, consistent growth that I almost missed if I wasn't paying attention.

    It was a humbling experience. I realized that real growth, whether it's a plant or a personal goal, takes time and consistent effort. There are no shortcuts, just a lot of small, seemingly insignificant steps in the right direction.

    Lesson #2: Learning Resilience from a Drooping Peace Lily

    And then, disaster struck. Okay, maybe "disaster" is a bit dramatic, but Percy started to droop. His leaves, once vibrant and green, began to sag, and I'm pretty sure he was judging my plant parenting skills with every wilting stem.

    Turns out, I'd been overwatering him. (Who knew plants could have too much of a good thing?) I felt like a failure, ready to toss in the trowel and embrace my plant-killing destiny.

    But then, just when I was about to give up hope, something amazing happened. After some frantic Googling and a little TLC (read: letting the soil dry out completely), Percy perked up. And not only did he bounce back, but he also surprised me with a beautiful white bloom.

  • The Unexpected Life Lessons I Learned from a Houseplant

    The Unexpected Life Lessons I Learned from a Houseplant




    The Unexpected Life Lessons I Learned from a Houseplant

    From Black Thumb to Budding Plant Parent

    Let’s be honest, my thumbs have a history of being less than green. Okay, they were practically charcoal black. I’d managed to kill cacti, for crying out loud! Plants just didn’t seem to thrive in my presence. So naturally, when my well-meaning friend gifted me a cheerful little ZZ plant, I accepted it with a mixture of hope and trepidation. “This one’s impossible to kill,” she’d assured me. Famous last words, I thought.

    plant, whom I affectionately named Zephyr, was about to school me in resilience. I promptly overwatered him, mistaking his stoic silence for thirst. I left him in a dark corner, thinking he wouldn’t mind the lack of sunlight. Zephyr, however, took it all in stride. He persevered through my well-intentioned but misguided attempts at care.

    Slowly, I began to understand his subtle cues. Drooping leaves meant he needed a drink, not a whole swimming pool in his pot. Yellowing leaves meant he craved a bit of sunshine, not the shadowy depths of my living room. Zephyr taught me that even when faced with challenges, bouncing back is possible, often stronger than before.

    Lesson #2: Patience – The Root of All Growth

    Now, I’m a notoriously impatient person. I want instant gratification, immediate results. Zephyr, however, operates on plant time. He takes his sweet time to sprout new growth. I’d check him every day, convinced that today would be the day a new leaf would magically unfurl. And every day, I’d be met with the same, steady green.

    But then, one day, it happened. A tiny, tightly furled leaf emerged, a testament to Zephyr’s steady, patient growth. He taught me that good things take time. That sometimes, the most rewarding experiences come from waiting, from trusting the process, and from embracing the journey.

  • The Unexpected Life Lessons I Learned From a Houseplant

    The Unexpected Life Lessons I Learned From a Houseplant




    The Unexpected Life Lessons I Learned From a Houseplant


    My Little Green Guru

    Let’s be honest, I’m about as far from a “plant person” as you can get. My thumbs are more charcoal than green, and my idea of plant care used to be optimistically whispering, “Please don’t die,” while giving it a splash of water every other week (or was it month? Oops). But then, Freddy the Fiddle Leaf Fig came into my life. Now, Freddy wasn’t a gift, a spur-of-the-moment purchase, or even a rescue mission. Freddy was a dare. My overly confident, plant-loving friend scoffed at my self-proclaimed black thumb and declared, “Even YOU can’t kill a Fiddle Leaf Fig!” Challenge accepted.

    Freddy tested my patience. He dropped leaves like they were going out of style. He wilted dramatically when I so much as looked at him wrong. He even developed a suspicious brown spot that had me convinced I was about to witness a plant homicide. But through it all, Freddy persevered.

    And you know what? So did I. I researched the heck out of fiddle leaf fig care. I invested in a watering can with measurements (who knew such a thing existed?). I even started talking to Freddy (don’t judge, it seemed to help!). Slowly but surely, Freddy bounced back, the brown spot faded, and new leaves unfurled. It was then I realized that resilience isn’t about avoiding challenges; it’s about weathering the storm and coming out stronger on the other side. Just like Freddy.

    Lesson 2: Patience, a Plant Parent’s Best Friend

    Anyone who tells you plants don’t grow fast enough clearly hasn’t experienced the excruciating anticipation of waiting for a new leaf to unfurl. I swear, I spent weeks staring at Freddy, willing him to sprout. It was like watching paint dry, but with the added pressure of keeping a living organism alive.

  • The Unexpected Life Lessons I Learned from a Houseplant

    The Unexpected Life Lessons I Learned from a Houseplant




    The Unexpected Life Lessons I Learned from a Houseplant

    From Black Thumb to Budding Botanist: My Houseplant Journey

    Let’s be honest, my history with plants was less than stellar. In fact, I was basically the plant grim reaper. I’m pretty sure I saw a cactus shudder once as I walked by. So, naturally, when my well-meaning friend gifted me a perfectly healthy peace lily, I accepted with a mix of terror and feigned enthusiasm. “Don’t worry,” I told her (and myself), “This one will be different.”

    Spoiler alert: it wasn’t different, at least not at first.

    Plant Parenting

    My initial approach to plant parenting was a chaotic blend of neglect and overwatering—two equally deadly sins in the plant world. I’d forget about it for days, then drown it in a tidal wave of guilt-water. Unsurprisingly, my poor peace lily started to resemble a sad, wilted salad.

    One day, while scrolling through countless “How to Not Kill Your Houseplants” articles (don’t judge), I had an epiphany: maybe I wasn’t cut out for the intuitive, zen-like approach to plant care. Maybe I needed hard facts, specific instructions, and a schedule I could set on my phone.

    Turns out, my peace lily thrived on routine. Who knew? A little research revealed it only needed watering once a week, preferred indirect sunlight, and actually enjoyed a bit of plant food now and then. Who would’ve thought? So I set reminders, invested in a watering can with measurements, and even downloaded a plant-tracking app (yes, really).

    And guess what? It worked! Slowly but surely, my leafy roommate perked up. New leaves unfurled, vibrant and green. It was a miracle! Or, you know, just the result of following basic instructions. The point is, I felt like a proud plant parent for the first time ever.

    Lesson #2: Slow and Steady: Embracing the Subtleties of Growth

    Here’s the thing about plants: their progress is subtle. You won’t see them sprouting new leaves every day. But if you pay close enough attention, you’ll notice the tiny changes. The way it stretches towards the sunlight. The subtle deepening of green in its leaves. The way it seems just a little bit taller than it was last week.

  • Confessions of a Reformed Plant Killer (and Why You Should Totally Join My Green Thumb Club)

    Confessions of a Reformed Plant Killer (and Why You Should Totally Join My Green Thumb Club)





    From Serial Plant Slayer to Proud Plant Parent

    Okay, let’s be real—I wasn’t always this “crazy plant lady” you see before you. In fact, I used to be a notorious plant killer. I’m talking serial succulent slayer, a black thumb with a graveyard of neglected greenery. If a plant even dared to grace my windowsill, it seemed to spontaneously combust. Dramatic? Maybe. But trust me, my lack of a green thumb was legendary.

    Then, something magical happened. My well-meaning friend, bless her soul, gifted me this sad-looking little fern for my birthday. I’m pretty sure she was hedging her bets, expecting it to join the choir invisible within a week. But something in me snapped. Maybe it was the fern’s drooping fronds whispering, “Help me, you’re my only hope!” Or perhaps it was the realization that my apartment looked like a beige prison cell. Whatever the reason, I vowed to keep this fern alive.

    plant alive isn’t rocket science. Who knew that a little water, sunlight, and the occasional pep talk (don’t judge) could work wonders? As I diligently cared for Fernie (yes, I named him), I started noticing something amazing—he was thriving! New fronds unfurled with an enthusiasm that was surprisingly contagious. My confidence grew, and soon I was adopting abandoned succulents, befriending forgotten ficuses, and even propagating pothos like a seasoned plant witch.

    Here’s the thing about plants—they talk to you. Not literally, of course (although sometimes I swear I hear Fernie whisper “More coffee, please”). But they communicate their needs in subtle ways. A drooping leaf? Thirsty. Yellowing tips? Too much sun. Suddenly, I was fluent in Plant, and it was surprisingly rewarding.

    Unexpected Benefits of Plant Parenthood: More Than Just Green Thumbs

    Becoming a plant parent has brought more than just greenery into my life—it’s brought a whole bunch of unexpected joys:

    • Stress-busting superpowers: Seriously, nothing calms the mind like digging your hands in some soil or misting a thirsty Monstera. It’s like meditation, but with more chlorophyll.
    • A sense of accomplishment: Every new leaf is a tiny victory, a testament to your nurturing skills. Take that, self-doubt!
    • A home that feels more alive: Plants add life, color, and even personality to your space. Plus, they make you look like a responsible adult who can keep something alive besides takeout leftovers.
    • A connection to nature: In our tech-filled world, having a little piece of nature indoors is incredibly grounding and refreshing.
  • The Unexpected Life Lessons I Learned from a Houseplant

    The Unexpected Life Lessons I Learned from a Houseplant



    My Brown Thumb Gets a Little Greener

    Let’s be honest, my thumbs have never been mistaken for those of a seasoned gardener. In fact, my plant-parenting track record was more of a graveyard of good intentions and crunchy brown leaves. So, when my friend gifted me a fern – a FERN – I accepted with a mix of hope and trepidation. This, my friends, was a test. Could I keep this delicate creature alive? Spoiler alert: I did, and in the process, I learned a thing or two about more than just watering schedules.

    fern, convinced it was thirsty, only to realize later that overwatering is a thing. (Who knew?) It was a classic case of “doing too much” – a pattern I’m unfortunately prone to in other aspects of life. The fern, in its quiet wisdom, taught me the art of observation and patience. Instead of rushing in with solutions, I learned to take a breath, assess the situation, and respond with a gentler touch. Turns out, sometimes the best thing you can do is just let things be.

    Lesson 2: Celebrate Small Wins (Like New Fern Fronds)

    Remember how I mentioned my history of plant-related casualties? Yeah, that made every new fern frond feel like a monumental victory. Seriously, I’m talking full-on happy dance, maybe even a little victory song. The fern, in its own subtle way, reminded me to celebrate the small wins – those tiny triumphs that often go unnoticed in the hustle of everyday life. A completed to-do list, a heartfelt conversation, a perfectly brewed cup of coffee – these are all moments worthy of a little internal high-five.

  • The Time I Tried to be a ‘Morning Person’ (and Failed Spectacularly)

    The Time I Tried to be a ‘Morning Person’ (and Failed Spectacularly)

    The Time I Tried to be a Morning Person (and Failed Spectacularly)

    We’ve all seen them – those infuriatingly chipper morning people who practically skip out of bed with the sunrise, chirping about how “great it is to be up early!” Meanwhile, I’m usually peeling myself out of bed after hitting snooze for the tenth time, wondering if it’s socially acceptable to wear pajamas to work.

    The Pact (and My Unrealistic Expectations)

    My journey into the supposed utopia of early rising began, as most bad decisions do, with a conversation over coffee – well, more accurately, over my third cup of coffee while my friend, let’s call her Sunshine Sally, sipped her green smoothie.

    “You know,” Sally chirped, “You’d be so much more productive if you woke up early!”

    Thus began our pact. We’d both wake up at 6 am, go for a jog, and have a healthy breakfast. I even bought a juicer.

    person: energized, productive, and maybe even capable of making my own sourdough bread before work.

    Day 1: The Alarm Clock Becomes My Nemesis

    The first morning arrived, and my alarm clock (which I swear was judging me) blared its obnoxious wake-up call. I stumbled out of bed, feeling like I had just fallen asleep. My attempt at a “jog” resembled something closer to a zombie shuffle.

    Sally, naturally, was already back from her run, looking annoyingly refreshed. She greeted me with a perky, “Good morning! How was your run?”

    I mumbled something about “enjoying the fresh air” while mentally composing a strongly worded letter to the inventor of the alarm clock.

    Day 3: The Great Coffee Caper

    The next few days followed a similar pattern of sleep deprivation and failed attempts at athleticism. By day three, I was running on fumes and caffeine. I even resorted to hiding emergency coffee stashes around my apartment for those pre-dawn moments of desperation.