If you’re in a season of stillness or softness, this one’s for you.

I own fifty houseplants. Not a typo. Fifty. They surround my windowsills and bookshelves, drink in the light that trickles through the blinds, and lean toward the world like they want something from it. They’ve been my quiet companions for years—green things I could nurture when I didn’t know how to nurture myself.

And then I stopped.

Five months ago, I had foot surgery. The kind that takes something out of you, and then keeps taking. I didn’t mean to neglect them. But one week turned into three. My succulents went a full season without water. Not even a glance. I didn’t mist, prune, repot, or rotate. I barely moved.

And yet… they’re alive. Not just clinging on, but thriving.

I keep walking past them like they’re a miracle I don’t quite believe in. The Peace Lily and Anthuriums bloomed. The Pothos are cascading like they’re auditioning for a catalog. Even the Fiddle-Leaf Fig—which used to drop a leaf in protest every time I breathed near it—has put out new growth.

It doesn’t make sense. But also, it does.

Plants are built for drought. And maybe, in some quiet way, so am I.

Here’s what I’ve learned since:

Some of my plants went dormant. That’s what they do in winter. They slow down and conserve energy. They look like they’re doing nothing at all, but underground, there’s a soft, invisible kind of resilience. They’re waiting for better light. Not panicking. Not performing. Just being.

Some are hardy by nature—the plants with thick leaves and thick skin are built for long stretches without rain. They’ve adapted to scarcity. They know how to hold on when nothing good is coming in.

My plants had deep enough roots to survive because I’d cared for them well before the silence. They had reserves. They trusted the soil. They knew what it was like to be fed—and they held on until I could return.

And yes, maybe I got lucky. Maybe the light stayed steady, the temperatures didn’t swing, and the pests didn’t find their way in. But there’s more to it than odds.

There’s something here I needed to see.

Survival isn’t always a sign of perfect care. Sometimes it’s a sign of deep, ancestral wisdom.

These plants—my fifty green mirrors—didn’t need constant tending. They just needed enough. And maybe that’s a truth I’ve forgotten in my own healing. Thriving doesn’t always look like doing everything right. Sometimes resting is the most powerful thing you can do.

I thought they would die without me. I thought everything would fall apart the moment I let go. I didn’t even care honestly. I was more focused on my own pain. But they didn’t. And neither did I.

This isn’t a metaphor I was trying to write. But here it is anyway:

I think about the parts of me I’ve left alone lately. The inner places I haven’t watered. The parts I was afraid might wither if I stopped showing up perfectly. But healing—real healing—isn’t manicured. It’s not a checklist. It’s a season. A dormancy. A rooting deeper into the self.

I’ve been growing this whole time, even if I didn’t see it.

And maybe you have, too.

Maybe you’ve come through something lately—a loss, a reckoning, a long dark hallway of uncertainty. Maybe you feel behind, or brittle, or overdue for care. Maybe you think your neglect is the end of things.

But maybe it isn’t.

Maybe the bloom will come anyway.

Maybe the roots held on for you.

Maybe you are more resilient than you realized.

So here’s to the ones that lived.

To the ones that didn’t get everything they needed, but made it anyway. To the ones that went quiet and kept breathing. To the ones that waited for the light to change.

To the part of you that’s still reaching, even now.