Latest / She Rose: Women Who Turned Pain Into Purpose / Why Watering Plants Taught Me to Trust My Own Slow Healing | She Rose
Transcript
- I almost threw away the brown, crispy stem yesterday. It looked like dead weight, a final admission that I had failed something again. It was sitting on my kitchen counter, wrapped in a paper towel like a patient waiting for a diagnosis. A pothos vine, once lush and trailing with heart-shaped leaves that seemed to breathe life into the room. Now? Just a brittle stick. No green. No sign of the vibrant energy that used to spill over the pot’s edge. I stared at it while my coffee cooled, feeling that familiar tightness in my chest—the one that says, 'You messed up. You forgot. You didn’t care enough.' We’ve all been there, haven’t we? That moment where we look at something we’re responsible for—whether it’s a relationship, a project, or ourselves—and see only decay. In my old life as a mediator, I was trained to fix things quickly. To find the leverage, the compromise, the swift resolution. But plants don’t work on mediation timelines. They don’t care about your quarterly goals or your urgency. They just are. And right now, this plant was telling me it was done. My first instinct wasn’t compassion; it was replacement. It would be so easy to walk to the store, buy a new cutting from a friend who has an excess of them, and swap this out. Hide the evidence of neglect. Keep the illusion of perfection intact. I could have the greenery back by tomorrow afternoon. No one would know I’d let this one slip. No one would judge the brown stem because it wouldn’t exist. Isn’t that what we do with our own lives? When we feel we’ve cracked under pressure, when we’ve neglected our health or our dreams, we want to surgically remove that part of us. We want to start fresh, clean slate, no history. We treat our past mistakes like trash to be taken out, rather than soil to be tilled. But here is the truth I’m learning, slowly and painfully: you cannot replace the root system. You can buy a new plant, but you won’t get the history. You won’t get the resilience that comes from surviving the drought. The crack is where the light gets in, yes, but it’s also where the water finally reaches the roots after weeks of thirst. So I didn’t throw it away. I didn’t call a florist. I sat with that brown stem. Let’s sit with that for a second. What does it mean to stay present with something that isn’t working? To keep watering a plant that looks dead? It feels irrational. It feels like madness. In a world that rewards speed and visible results, choosing slowness feels like surrender. I remembered an episode we talked about recently, where we discussed how grief isn’t a problem to solve. This felt similar. This wasn’t a crisis to be managed; it was a state of being to be witnessed. I realized I was projecting my own fear of abandonment onto the plant. If I stop caring, it dies. If I leave it alone, it fades. So I kept showing up. I checked the soil moisture every day. I adjusted its position near the window, not because I thought it would magically heal, but because it deserved the sun, even if it couldn’t yet reach for it. There is a profound dignity in simply staying. In saying, 'I am here. You are here. We will see what happens.' It’s okay to be a work in progress, especially when the work is invisible. Three weeks passed. Or maybe four. Time moves differently when you’re watching for tiny signs. One morning, I walked into the kitchen and saw it. Not a leaf. Not a full recovery. Just a small, pale green speck emerging from the node where the leaf had fallen off. It was barely visible, easily missed if I hadn’t been looking closely. But it was there. Life. Returning. Not with a bang, not with a sudden explosion of foliage, but with a whisper. It reminded me of the early days of my own healing. After the burnout, after the divorce from my corporate identity, I didn’t wake up one day and feel whole. I woke up and felt… quiet. Then, a little curiosity. Then, a small desire to write. These weren’t miracles. They were merely signs of life returning to dormant parts of my soul. We often wait for the grand transformation, the total overhaul. But healing is incremental. It is the accumulation of small, green specks that eventually become leaves. It requires us to trust the process even when the evidence is scarce. Even when the rest of the branch still looks brown and brittle. Now, watering this plant has become my ritual. It’s not chore; it’s communion. I fill the pitcher, pour the water slowly, watching it soak into the dark earth. I ask myself, 'How are you doing?' It sounds silly, I know. But in that moment, I am practicing presence. I am reminding myself that growth is not linear. Some days the plant will look the same. Some days it might even lose another leaf. And that is okay. I am learning to detach my self-worth from the outcome. I am not watering it to make it grow; I am watering it because it is alive and deserves care. This shift in intention changes everything. When we act out of obligation, we resent the task. When we act out of love, we find peace in the action itself. I think about the women who come to me, carrying the weight of their families, their careers, their communities. They are exhausted because they are trying to force growth. They are pouring water on concrete, expecting flowers. But if they shifted their focus to nurturing the soil—if they focused on their own internal hydration, their own rest, their own patience—they might find that the growth happens naturally, in its own time. Purpose isn’t found in the harvest; it’s found in the watering. There is a hidden power in the unseen work. We live in a culture that celebrates the bloom but ignores the root. We post the promotion, the wedding, the vacation photo. We rarely post the months of silence, the tears in the shower, the days of doing nothing but breathing. But the roots are where the strength lies. The pothos is known for its ability to survive neglect, for its resilience. But it doesn’t thrive on neglect; it thrives on consistency. Small, consistent acts of care build a network of strength that supports the visible growth above. Your daily choices—your boundaries, your rest, your honesty—are those roots. They don’t show up in Instagram stories. They don’t earn you applause. But they hold you upright when the wind picks up. I used to think purpose was about impact, about changing the world. Now I see it as about integrity, about showing up for the small things when no one is watching. When you water the plant that looks dead, you are affirming your belief in life. You are saying that you trust potential over current reality. That is a radical act of hope. So, I invite you to look at your own brown stems today. Where are you seeing decay? Is it a dream you’ve put on hold? A friendship that feels distant? Your own body after years of stress? Don’t rush to replace it. Don’t shame yourself for the neglect. Instead, sit with it. Ask it what it needs. Maybe it needs more light. Maybe it needs less water. Maybe it just needs you to stop looking away. Start small. Pour a little water. Watch for the speck. Celebrate the microscopic victories. Because they are real. They are happening. And they are enough. You are not broken because you are slow. You are not failing because you are not blooming yet. You are rooting. And roots are powerful. They go deep. They hold fast. They prepare for the season of abundance. Trust that season is coming. Until then, keep watering. Keep showing up. Keep trusting the slow, quiet magic of return. You are growing, even when you can’t see it. Especially when you can’t see it. Thank you for letting me sit with you in the garden today. Be gentle with yourself. I’ll see you next time.