I’m not really a succulent person. I’ve tried—God knows I’ve tried—but something about those stiff, rubbery little leaves doesn’t click with me. They just sit there, all stoic and self-contained, and I forget about them for one day too long and poof. Gone. Crispy. Cold to the touch. No drama, just silence.

But give me a leafy plant? A long, reaching, swaying-in-the-breeze, viney, thirsty, dramatic houseplant? That’s where I come alive. I don’t just like houseplants—I love them. I pet their leaves. I talk to them. I move them around the room like they’re trying to feng shui their lives and I’m just here to help. They’re my quiet little roommates, and we’re in this together.

There’s something so soothing about a big green leaf. I love the way they catch the light in the afternoon, how they lean toward the window like they’re sunbathing. I love when they surprise me with a new leaf—curled tight like a secret and slowly unfurling over days. There’s no rush. No performance. Just this steady, quiet growth.

I pet my plants like they’re cats. I know I’m not supposed to, technically—some article once told me it stresses them out—but honestly? They seem fine. My pothos practically flutters when I touch it. My philodendron has been thriving under my affectionate, slightly obsessive care. I’ll give them a little stroke as I walk by, just to say hi. A gentle “you’re doing amazing, sweetie.”

And they are. They’re doing amazing. In a world that can feel like it’s constantly unraveling, my houseplants are a kind of everyday miracle. I water them, trim them, repot them when they start getting dramatic and rootbound, and in return they remind me that growth doesn’t have to be loud to be real. Sometimes you grow by just reaching a little more toward the light.

So yeah, I love my houseplants. Not in a Pinterest-aesthetic way. Not in a “plant mom” mug kind of way (please no one get me one – I hate novelty anything). I love them in a real, steady, intimate way. They make me feel calm. Connected. A little more human. A little more alive.

And if I occasionally sing to them while watering or whisper encouragement to a particularly shy fern, well—some things are just between me and the leaves.