I Water Plants Like I Love People

There are four pots on my balcony.

One is a basil plant, green and honest. It leans out toward the morning light as if begging for just a little more time, a little more warmth. I water it every day. Religiously. Sometimes twice. I stroke its small leaves and whisper apologies when I forget.

The second is a spider plant. Hardy. Forgiving. I forget to water it often, but it always survives. It doesn’t make a fuss. Just keeps growing quietly, arching long arms out over the edge of its ceramic home, catching the breeze. Sometimes I forget it’s even there.

The third is a cactus, spiny and proud. I water it once a month if I remember. And when I do, I do so with hesitation, unsure if I’ve overdone it, unsure if it even wanted the water to begin with. Sometimes I speak to it in a lower voice, like it might be offended by affection.

The fourth pot is empty. It used to hold a flowering plant—I forget its name. I think I overwatered it. Or underwatered it. I’m not sure. But it died, and I didn’t remove the pot. I just let the soil crust over and sink. The emptiness stares at me every morning, a small grave I walk past with a toothbrush in my mouth and regret in my chest.

I water plants like I love people: unevenly.

I tend to the loudest one first. The one that wilts fastest, the one whose pain is most visible. I rush in with care, sometimes drowning it in my guilt and effort, thinking more is better. I’m often wrong.

Then there are the spider plants—my quiet friends. The ones who never complain. I take them for granted. I assume they’re fine, even when they’re not. I forget birthdays. I skip check-ins. But they keep showing up, green and kind.

The cacti are tougher. Those who bristle at closeness. I never know if I should leave them alone or try harder. I walk on eggshells around them. I admire their strength and feel awkward in their presence, like I don’t quite belong. When I do offer affection, it’s cautious, sterile. I'm scared I’ll hurt them—or that they’ll hurt me.

And then… there are the people I’ve lost. The ones I cared for too much or not enough. The relationships I watered too late. Or too hard. Or without understanding what they needed. Their empty pots remain. Ghosts of intention.

It took me years to realize care is not about quantity—it’s about attentiveness. Listening. Knowing what kind of soil they need. When to let them bask in the sun alone, and when to sit with them in shade. I used to believe love meant doing everything, being everything. But sometimes, love is restraint. Sometimes it's consistency. Sometimes it's silence.

I remember the first time someone told me, “You’re a good person, but you’re not always a good friend.” It stung. It stayed. Like spilled water, it seeped into the cracks of my identity. And they were right. I was the kind of person who showed up late with too many flowers, who disappeared in the droughts, who forgot birthdays and remembered traumas. I gave people my rescue, not my presence.

But I’m learning.

Now, I set reminders to check the soil—not just when it looks dry, but as a habit. I leave water by the door before it’s begged for. I speak to all my plants, not just the ones who speak back.

I text the friend I haven’t seen in a month. I ask the quiet ones if they’re really okay. I respect the boundaries of the cacti, but I still offer a little light, a little warmth. I let the memory of the dead plant humble me, not haunt me.

Some days I still forget. Some days I overdo it. But I try.

Because love, like watering, is a daily choice. Not just a grand gesture. Not just when the leaves start to brown.

I water plants like I love people: unevenly.

But I’m learning to love evenly.

I’m learning to grow, too.