When I first brought home my monstera plant, it was a droopy little thing—two leaves, both torn, and brown edges. I almost didn’t buy it., but something about its resilience tugged at me. The split leaves, the way it reached for light even in a dark corner, felt familiar. I was in a fragile place too—recovering from old wounds, trying to build a new life, and cautiously opening myself to new people.
I didn’t know it then, but that plant would become a mirror for how I approach emotional growth and healthy relationships.
Monstera plant care is all about trust. It’s less about perfection and more about patience. They don’t bloom overnight. They need space, consistency, and time to root before they unfurl. Just like people.
When I first met my husband, I felt myself curling inward like a leaf avoiding too much light. I didn’t know how to be safe in something that felt so gentle. He was kind, present, not pushy. But I kept expecting him to turn. To leave. To prove me right.
He didn’t.
He watered slowly—time, eye contact, small acts of care. No loud declarations, no pressure to be anything but where we were.
That’s the thing about monstera deliciosa: they don’t grow because you force them. They grow because the environment is right.
Emotional growth isn’t linear and neither is a monstera. People love them for their dramatic split leaves; those holes that look like little windows. But those don’t show up until the plant is mature. Young plants have plain, heart-shaped leaves. You have to wait for the drama.
In new relationships, especially when you come from trauma, it’s tempting to rush to meaning. To want someone to see you, understand your history, meet every need before you’ve even named them yourself. I’ve done that and when people couldn’t hold it all, I’d take it as proof that connection wasn’t safe.
But like a monstera, emotional growth needs gentleness.
It took time before I let my husband into the messier layers of me—my hypervigilance, my past, the way I flinch when someone unexpectedly comes up behind me. And to his credit, he didn’t push. He just stayed. He made it safe enough for me to start unfolding.
The holes and slits didn’t come all at once. But they came.
Healthy relationships need the right light. A monstera grows best in bright, indirect light. Too much sun, and the leaves scorch. Too little, and they droop. That balance—between closeness and space—is everything.
It’s the same with people. New relationships need room to breathe. We can’t expect deep intimacy without emotional sunlight, but we also can’t force connection before it’s ready. There’s a rhythm to it. A seasonal pace.
My husband gave me that balance. And over time, I learned to give it back.
If you’re navigating new connections—romantic, platonic, or even with yourself—consider the wisdom of monstera plant care. Be patient. Let the roots settle. Allow light in, but don’t flood the soil.
Growth takes time. But when it comes, it’s beautiful. Holes and all.
Lessons From Nature 