Spoiler: I’m better at loving than growing.

If I had my druthers, I’d be barefoot on a desert island, surrounded by lush greenery, chirping birds, and a gentle breeze that smells faintly of gardenias. But since life seems to have other plans, I’ve settled for my humble home—and a motley crew of plants I’ve attempted to raise with varying degrees of success.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I love plants. Flora, fauna—give me all of it. But when it comes to keeping anything green alive... let’s just say my thumb isn’t green so much as a sickly chartreuse. That’s right. Not jade. Not forest. Chartreuse. The kind of color that makes a plant quiver when I walk into the room.

Over the years, I’ve learned a few hard truths.

• Ferns? Absolutely not.

• Orchids? Only if you want to feel judged.

• But Ivy? Creeping Charlies? Pothos that can survive the apocalypse? Now we’re talking.

Even with the hardy types, I’ve had to learn to back off. Turns out, I love my plants too much. I water them too often. I rotate them obsessively. I talk to them like they’re toddlers who’ve just started daycare: “Are you getting enough sun? Do you feel too crowded? Are you lonely? Do you need a snack?” And then I wonder why they start to fade.

A friend once said, “You’re over-mothering your plants.” And that’s when it hit me—I am. I smother them with care, attention, and unsolicited nutrients. It’s not neglect I struggle with. It’s restraint.

But slowly, I’m learning. To give my green babies space. To trust they’ll ask for water when they need it (or, you know, wilt dramatically). And when in doubt, I turn to the real experts—our local plant shops and green-thumbed Bowiezens who’ve turned their homes into mini jungles without overwatering everything in sight.

It's hard for me to admit that as much as I love plants, they don't love me back. But maybe the real growth (pardon the pun) is in learning to let go—just a little.