“The Day I Tried to Be a Plant Mom”

I used to think plants were just green decorations that didn't ask for much—just sun, water, and love. Easy, right? Wrong. I found out the hard way that becoming a “plant mom” was not as Instagram-perfect as I imagined.

It all started when I visited my friend Brenda, who had turned her small apartment into a tropical jungle. There were vines hanging from curtain rods, succulents smiling from the window sill, and some leafy monstrosity she called “Steve” dominating the corner like a leafy bodyguard.

Brenda looked so peaceful watering her plants. She spoke to them. Literally. “Grow, babies, grow,” she’d sing, misting them like royalty. I wanted that. The calm. The green glow. The mystery of why someone would name a cactus “Chad.”

So I did it. I marched into the plant shop like a woman on a mission and told the guy behind the counter, “I need plants. Beginner ones. Ones that won’t die just because I sneeze too close to them.” He handed me a snake plant, a pothos, and a tiny cactus wearing a sombrero. I named them Spike, Gloria, and Kevin, respectively. I was ready.

The first few days were great. I posted pictures. “Meet my new roommates 🌿✨,” I captioned, not realizing the chaos that would follow.

Kevin, the cactus, was the first to betray me. I barely touched him and he stabbed me. I bled for a plant that never said thank you. Gloria, the pothos, started drooping like she was auditioning for a plant soap opera. And Spike? The snake plant? He just sat there like an uninterested uncle who showed up to the family BBQ with nothing to contribute but judgment.

I panicked. I downloaded four plant care apps. I joined a Facebook group called “Plant Parents United.” I even tried singing to them like Brenda. My neighbor knocked on my door to ask if I was okay. “Just bonding with my plants!” I chirped. She backed away slowly.

One week in, Gloria had brown leaves. Kevin’s sombrero mysteriously disappeared (I suspect my cat, Pickles). And Spike, the silent one, developed a lean that suggested he was giving up on life entirely.

I decided to take them outside for some fresh air. Maybe they just needed a new view, like humans. I placed them on the balcony, told them encouraging things like, “Photosynthesize, baby,” and went back inside.

Thirty minutes later, a storm rolled in like a plot twist. By the time I rushed back out, Gloria was flat, Kevin had fallen face-first into a puddle, and Spike was somehow on his side, looking dramatically betrayed. It was like a plant crime scene.

I cried. Not a pretty cry. The kind with tissues and dramatic sighing and regret. Who cries over pothos? Me. That’s who.

That night, I called Brenda. “I think my plants hate me,” I confessed.

She laughed. Not just a chuckle. A full, wheezy, “You tried it” kind of laugh. “Girl, even I killed my first spider plant,” she said. “Plant parenting is like real parenting. You learn as you go. You mess up, you try again.”

“Gloria’s dead.”

“She might not be. Did you overwater her?”

“I gave her three cups a day!”

“You tried to drown her!”

Okay. So maybe I loved too hard. I took her advice, cut off Gloria’s dead leaves, repotted Kevin, and propped up Spike with a chopstick and a prayer. And you know what? A week later, Gloria sprouted a new leaf. Kevin looked…drier, but alive. And Spike stood proudly like a plant who’d been through something.

Now, months later, I’m proud to say I still have all three. I added two more: a dramatic fiddle leaf fig named Beyoncé and a peace lily named Larry. Larry is moody, but I love him anyway.

Here’s what I learned: plants are like people. Some are dramatic, some are tough, some need more space than others. And all of them, even the ones that stab you, are worth the patience.

So if you're thinking about becoming a plant parent, just know—it's not all aesthetics and succulents. It’s overwatering, under-watering, re-potting, and sometimes sobbing over a dead leaf at 1 a.m. But it’s also peaceful. Humbling. Funny. And weirdly rewarding.

And if your pothos dies? Don’t worry. You can always name the next one Gloria 2.0.