Why My Plants Are Basically on Life Support

 

Why My Plants Are Basically on Life Support

By Farouk Alam

 

Let me start with a public service announcement: if you’re a houseplant considering relocation to my windowsill, run. I don’t care how photogenic your glossy leaves are, or how “low maintenance” your care tag claims you are—this is not the home for you. You’re walking into a botanical Bermuda Triangle. My living room is where chlorophyll dreams go to die.

And yes, I know. “Plants purify your air!” you say. “They reduce anxiety!” Oh, honey. My plants are the anxiety.

Chapter 1: The Green Delusion

Like many naive plant parents, I was seduced by Instagram. Rows of lush fiddle-leaf figs basking in natural light. Tiny succulents sitting smugly on Scandinavian shelves. Monstera leaves the size of small pizza boxes, posing like they just stepped off a Calvin Klein runway.

I saw those plant influencers and thought: “I can do that.”

So I marched into a nursery (a botanical trap for optimistic fools), and dropped the kind of money that could fund a small civilization. I returned with three succulents, two pothos, a fern, and what I now know is a Ficus from the fiery underworld.

Chapter 2: The Initial High

For the first week, it was magical. I misted. I spritzed. I whispered sweet nothings like, "You’re thriving, babe. Look at those leaves!"

I even downloaded a plant care app that buzzed every time my monstera wanted a drink—as if my plant had developed a needy personality. It felt like I was really doing something with my life. People visited and said, “Wow, are you into plants now?” and I replied with the smug tone of someone who’s read half a book on urban gardening.

But then it began.

Chapter 3: The Great Decline

It started with the fern. Ferns are liars. They pretend to be low maintenance, then drop all their leaves the minute your humidity drops below rainforest levels.

The pothos went next. One minute it was thriving, the next it looked like it had given up on life. I moved it to a sunnier window. Then a shadier one. Then I spun it clockwise three times while chanting “Photosynthesis.” Nothing helped.

The succulents? They died from too much love. Apparently, “watering them every time I felt insecure” was not what NASA meant by proper hydration.

Chapter 4: The Ficus Saga

Let me talk about the ficus. This diva of a plant dropped leaves every time I blinked. Change the curtain? Drop a leaf. Move it five inches left? Dramatic fall. Speak too loudly? Boom—leaf suicide.

I Googled “ficus care” and fell into a rabbit hole of conflicting advice:

- They love sunlight.

- They hate direct sunlight.

- Water weekly.

- Never water unless they beg.

I tried everything. Soothing music. Positive affirmations. Therapy. Nothing worked. The ficus is now a glorified stick in a pot, haunting me like a botanical ghost.

Chapter 5: The Emotional Toll

I didn’t sign up for this emotional rollercoaster. I wanted peace and oxygen, not guilt and heartbreak. Every time I pass the plant graveyard (formerly my kitchen windowsill), I feel judged.

And don’t even get me started on plant people. You know the ones. The ones with thriving indoor jungles who casually drop phrases like, “Just check the soil with your finger!” Ma’am, I have. The soil feels exactly like failure.

Chapter 6: Plant CPR

I’ve tried to revive them. I moved them around like a frantic ER doctor doing chest compressions. "Breathe, dammit! Breathe!"

I’ve trimmed dead leaves with the precision of a surgeon. I even tried talking to them. At one point, I may or may not have wept into a terracotta pot whispering, "Tell me what you need. Just say the word!"

All I got back was silence. And maybe a fungal gnat.

Chapter 7: Accepting My Role

At this point, I’ve accepted that my role in the plant world is that of a cautionary tale. I am not a plant parent. I am a plant hospice worker. I bring them in, give them false hope, and hold their wilted stems in their final moments.

I still buy plants occasionally. Not out of hope, but out of sheer stubbornness. Because somewhere deep down, I believe maybe—just maybe—one day I’ll find the plant that thrives on emotional chaos, neglect, and erratic watering.

Spoiler alert: that plant is plastic.

Final Thoughts: A Green Goodbye

If you’re a struggling plant parent like me, just know: you’re not alone. Our homes may not be the jungles we dreamed of, but that’s okay. Some people raise strong, leafy companions. Others... write eulogies in blog form.

So the next time you see a wilting fern in someone’s apartment, don’t judge. Offer them a kind word. A misting bottle. A hug.

Or better yet—introduce them to the world of fake plants. No judgment, no guilt. Just 24/7 greenery and the sweet, sweet peace of never being buzzed by an app named “Leafy.”

About Farouk Alam 

Self-declared Plant Slayer | Still Trying | Might Water the Cactus Tomorrow