My Life Was Falling Apart, So I Bought a Succulent

Let’s rewind to the day I hit rock bottom. Not the dramatic kind where you lose everything and walk barefoot into the ocean with a violin playing in the background. No. Mine was more of a soft collapse, like when you open a bag of chips and half of it spills onto the car floor, and you're too emotionally exhausted to care.

I was sitting in my kitchen, wearing a hoodie that hadn't seen the inside of a washing machine in two months, staring at my third coffee of the morning like it held the answers to life. Spoiler alert: it didn’t. It barely held caffeine at that point.

I had bills I couldn’t pay, emails I couldn’t answer, and existential dread swirling in my chest like a shaken bottle of soda. I was, in short, a modern adult—overwhelmed, under-showered, and emotionally constipated.

So I did what any rational, responsible adult would do.

I bought a succulent.

A tiny, overpriced, suspiciously optimistic little plant from a trendy shop with misted windows and “self-care” written in script font on the walls. His name was Kevin. I named him on the bus ride home. Kevin the Succulent.

I told myself it was symbolic. A new beginning. A fresh start. If I could keep Kevin alive, maybe I could keep myself alive too. Maybe I could remember to drink water, like he did. Maybe I could find a sunny spot, metaphorically or literally, and just exist in it for five minutes without spiraling.

Spoiler #2: Kevin died within two weeks.

I overwatered him. Then I underwatered him. I moved him to the bathroom, thinking he might enjoy the steam from my showers (which were already rare, so that should’ve been the first clue he was doomed). His leaves shriveled like my hopes. His soil dried up like my bank account. Kevin became a husk of his former self. Much like me.

I cried. Over a succulent. I sat there, holding his little ceramic pot like it was an urn, mourning not just Kevin, but every version of myself I thought I was supposed to be by now.

I was supposed to have my life together. Be successful. Be happy. Have more than three pairs of socks without holes. But there I was, crying over a dead plant and wondering if I was the kind of person who would ever get it right.

And then, somewhere between the sobs and snot, I started laughing.

Because what kind of person kills a succulent? You can forget they exist for a month and they still thrive. They're basically the cockroaches of the plant world—survivors. And I managed to murder one. It was both tragic and hilarious.

That moment—cry-laughing on my kitchen floor, holding the world’s most pathetic plant funeral—was the first real exhale I’d had in months.

It hit me then: maybe I wasn’t failing. Maybe I was just learning.

Learning that survival doesn’t always look pretty. Sometimes it looks like mismatched socks and unpaid bills. Sometimes it looks like crying over Kevin the Succulent. But it’s still survival.

Maybe being a mess isn’t a moral failing. Maybe it’s just… being human.

I started talking to people more. I found out everyone has a Kevin story. Maybe not a plant, but a moment of absurd despair that taught them something. A ridiculous rock bottom that cracked them open just enough to let a little light in.

And I started to realize: we don’t need to have it all together. We just need to keep going. Keep trying. Keep buying succulents even if we murder them. Because every time we do, we’re saying, “I believe I can grow.”

Today, I have a new succulent. Her name is Sharon. She’s alive. Thriving, even. I water her when I remember. I move her to the sunlight when I can. She doesn’t ask for much. Just like me, really.

And every time I pass her on the windowsill, I smile.

Because I remember Kevin. I remember the kitchen floor. I remember the moment I realized that falling apart can be the first step toward building something better.

So if you’re reading this in your own hoodie of doom, wondering if you’ll ever get your sh*t together…

Go buy a succulent.

Or don’t.

But know this: being a mess is okay. Crying is okay. Laughing through the tears is okay. You are still worthy. You are still growing.

And one day, you’ll look back on this moment—your Kevin moment—and laugh too.