Everything My Plants Keep Teaching Me
Finding new soil.
Spidey hasn’t handled the transition very well.
Spidey is one of my plants.
A few weeks ago, I moved all of my plants into my very small bedroom.
It wasn’t the original plan, but for this season of life, that’s where we all landed.
I wanted them together.
Like a family.
I had researched — the secret nerd that I am — that many houseplants benefit from being grouped together. They create their own little ecosystem, sharing humidity, breathing together, and creating an environment where they can thrive.
So I gathered them into one room.
Most of them settled in just fine.
Spidey did not.
His leaves began to droop, and despite my best efforts, he appeared to be grieving.
Or, perhaps, just not adapting particularly well to the move.
Standing there one morning, staring at this somewhat dramatic little spider plant, I caught myself wondering:
How often do we assume that what works for us will work for everyone else?
And just like that, my plants started teaching me.
One wanted more light.
Another had too much.
One needed less water.
Another bounced back only after I stopped trying to rescue it.
Every plant seemed to have its own language.
Its own rhythm.
Its own needs.
It made me wonder if humans aren’t all that different.
We call ourselves sentient beings.
But how often are we actually observing?
How often are we trying to get the outside world to adjust to our expectations instead of asking what the person — or situation — in front of us actually needs?
Why do we assume what works for a few people should work for everyone else?
Where do we overcorrect instead of observing a little longer?
Where do we rearrange things that may already be working?
And perhaps most importantly:
Are we actually connecting with one another, or are we simply exchanging information?
Are We Really Checking In?
I’ve been thinking about how casually we can abuse one another’s time.
We say we’re checking in.
But are we really checking in?
Or do we just want to give someone an update?
Are we there to witness?
Or are we keeping score?
Are we offering support?
Or are we looking for reassurance?
Even something as simple as checking on someone can become transactional when we’re not actually present.
And then there is the endless stream of social media.
We’re more connected than ever and, somehow, increasingly disconnected from the people sitting right in front of us.
It makes me wonder what nature understands that we’ve somehow forgotten.
Maybe connection isn’t about constant contact.
Maybe it’s about presence.
My Sister Taught Me Something Too
In the last few months, I’ve also had the honor and privilege of becoming an Aunie.
Yes. I’m officially Auntie Jades now. Not just a plant mama.
And watching my sister become a mother has been one of the most humbling things I’ve witnessed.
I don’t know how she does it.
The baby cries, eats, poops, sleeps, plays, cries again, eats again, maybe sleeps some more…
And then we do it all over again.
And again.
And again.
We all step in to help where we can.
But my sister said something to me a few weeks ago that stopped me:
“Everyone wants to see the baby. But nobody has really checked in on me. Not really. Not the way I would like them to.”
Damn.
That hit home.
Because everyone was tending to the visible thing.
The baby.
The thing everyone was excited to see.
But what about the person carrying the invisible weight?
It made me think about how often we do this.
We celebrate the accomplishment without checking on the person who accomplished it.
We admire the bloom without asking what the plant needed to get there.
We see the baby without seeing the mother.
We see the performance without seeing the person.
And leadership, at its best, creates an opportunity to bring more of the person forward — not just the performance.
What If We Paid More Attention?
Maybe that’s what my plants keep teaching me.
Pay attention.
Before you fix, observe.
Before you rearrange, ask.
Before you assume, listen.
Before you offer advice, get curious.
Before you ask someone how the thing is going, ask how they’re doing.
I’ve had to ask myself some hard questions recently too.
Where am I truly being present?
Where am I not stepping up?
Where am I neglecting my plants?
Where am I neglecting myself?
What am I doing well?
What could I tend to a little better?
Even in the small ways?
Because perhaps the small things aren’t actually small.
Maybe the daily devotion means more than we realize.
Light.
Water.
Attention.
Rest.
Community.
The things we repeat become the lives we live.
And perhaps prosperity isn’t always about doing more.
Maybe sometimes it’s about tending well to what has already been entrusted to us.
And Then There Is Spidey
I still check on Spidey every morning.
Has he perked up yet?
Are those leaves standing a little taller?
Looking a little greener?
Is Spidey finally deciding that this new home isn’t so bad after all?
I don’t know what Spidey’s timeline is.
And maybe that’s the point.
Growth has never been something we can force.
We can create the conditions.
We can offer care.
We can provide light, water, and patience.
But every living thing has its own rhythm.
And if we’re lucky, we learn to respect it.
I keep thinking about something else lately.
If a civilization capable of traversing galaxies appeared tomorrow, I’d wonder whether our consciousness — not our technology — would be what separated us.
What would they notice?
How we build?
How much we own?
How productive we are?
Or how we care for one another?
How we tend to what has been entrusted to us?
How we treat the person nobody else is checking on?
Maybe consciousness isn’t measured by how much we can accomplish.
Maybe it’s revealed in how deeply we can care.
So for now, I’ll keep tending to Spidey.
And if you’re reading this…
I have a feeling you’re rooting for him too.
Maybe because somewhere along the way, we’ve all been Spidey.
Trying to adjust.
Trying to find our place.
Trying to find our peace.
Trying to figure out what we need to truly thrive.
Here’s to Spidey.
May he find his light.
May he grow at his own pace.
And may we all remember that needing a different environment doesn’t mean something is wrong with us.
Sometimes it just means we’re still becoming.
We’re rooting for every living thing trying to adjust to a new season.
