Acquiring a new houseplant is an act of optimism. You may have killed every pothos and peace lily that's ever lived on your windowsill, but this one’s going to be different.
This is going to be the plant that you nurture properly, that you water enough but not too much, that you stream Mozart and Radiolab for when you leave the house. It’s going to grow up healthy. It’s going to be strong. It’s going to have a nice, earnest name like George Clooney or Ms. Plant. You’re going to live happily ever after.
It’s a real bummer, then, when that plant kicks the bucket.
Mourning a plant might seem silly. It’s not a pet, after all; it wasn’t cuddling with you, playing with you, or even relying on you consciously. But just as a healthy houseplant can have real therapeutical benefits, the death of a houseplant can have real psychological and emotional effects, especially considering the parental connotation we’ve given plant care.
Nurturing a plant is often framed as an easy precursor to caring for something more "difficult," like a pet. The plant care community even dabbles in the language of parenthood — take the popular terms “plant baby” and “plant mom,” for example, or the wealth of “plant parent” lingo on websites like trendy online plant retailer The Sill. Most people know that taking care of a plant is nothing like taking care of a pet — much less a child — but plant care is considered an early step on the caregiver’s journey.
In some cases, plants even serve as stand-ins for pets, whether due to apartment building rules or financial obstacles, thus causing plant parents to invest even more emotional energy into their leafy dependents. “I've tried to make [my plants] more like pets and less like plants. They have names,” a woman named Natasha told MarketWatch for a story last year. “I've stuck some googly eyes on their pots. I like having something to take care of.”
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At this level of emotional investment (and anthropomorphism), the death of a plant can really sting. When you factor in the false pressures of "plant parenthood," the implications can feel downright scary. I've certainly taken a mental tumble when a plant dies unexpectedly: If I can’t take care of a plant, I think, I probably can’t take care of a pet, and I definitely can’t take care of a child. Oh my god, I conclude, getting sweaty inside my own brain. I'm going to be a bad parent.
This conclusion doesn't check out, of course. Even if you or I did overwater a single fern to death — and maybe we did — that doesn’t mean we're not cut out for caregiving in general. Still, it’s understandable to feel some internal turmoil about a plant's demise, especially because the death is so wrapped up in the ego.
"There is an assumption that caring for a plant should be easy, so the shame can run deep."
“When it comes to a plant dying, the mourning usually is more about self-criticism over one's ability to do things right,” says Marina Resa, a psychotherapist based in Los Angeles who specializes in pet bereavement, among other things. “There's an assumption that caring for a plant should be easy, so the shame can run deep, particularly when a plant dies that is said to be ‘impossible to kill,’ such a cactus or succulent.”
When a plant you’ve owned for a long time dies, the mourning process might be even more difficult, Resa added. That plant has “seen” things, after all. It’s lived life alongside you, providing beauty and comfort in times of stress. And now, instead of furthering your connection to the natural world — a blessing that doesn't come easy in the digital age — you’ve dried it out.
Bobby Shultz, a 29-year-old data engineer and bike mechanic living in Oakland, told me via Twitter DM that his plant mourning process did indeed feature some "bad parent" guilt. "I killed a plant in college that I had named Juniper Sera," he explained. "Really made me feel like I was unfit for fatherhood. Not a joke."
I know the feeling. A few winters ago, I returned to my apartment in the wake of a devastating breakup to find that my peace lily, which had thrived through four roommates, two apartments, and a taxing mid-summer move, was dead. It wasn't just being dramatic, either — it was corpsified completely, like someone had sucked all the moisture from it with a straw.
The breakup I was going through already felt bad, as breakups do. But as I looked at my once-lovely plant, which now resembled a clump of overcooked spinach, I conflated my failed flora with my failed relationship. I was afraid that since I couldn't nurture these two things, I couldn’t nurture anything — at least not for long enough to make it actually matter. I felt like I'd failed at a role I didn't even know I had. (Worth noting: Women feel significantly more societal pressure to assume nurturing roles.)
Shultz's and my experiences aren't universal, though — not everyone will feel devastated at the loss of a plant. Depending on the circumstances, you might feel angry, resentful, or even relieved. Mourning, after all, comes in many forms.
Sophie, a 26-year-old copywriter living in Los Angeles, said she feels irritated when her plants die, but not at herself. She's angry at the plants themselves. “I find myself thinking: After all I’ve done for you, this is how you repay me?" she said. "All it takes is me going on one vacation for you to call it quits?”
I was afraid I couldn't nurture anything, at least not for long enough to make it actually matter.
A law student in Boston, who asked that I not use his name, told me he still holds a grudge about a plant he gifted to a friend, which died within weeks after the friend failed to water it. “It was like all the care and attention I gave to thoughtfully picking it out was chewed up and spit in my face,” he said.
And sweet relief at the death of a long-suffering plant has inspired at least one reported essay. In the Chicago Tribune last year, writer Keri Wiginton described the stress of watching her plants wither away despite her best efforts — a far cry from the serene environment she expected would come with a house full of plant life.
“After I potted my croton and calathea — and a handful of other botanical beauties — I expected instant relaxation,” she wrote. “Instead, I felt strained ... After awhile, I didn’t like how my houseplants made me feel: resentful and disappointed in myself.”
When she finally let the plants succumb to their various ailments, Wiginton felt much better. "It turns out surrounding myself with visual signs of my ineptness wasn’t a great idea," she concluded. Now she tends happily to plants growing outdoors on a raised bed, a type of garden that's often able to thrive without much outside help.
Of course, we don't all have access to a raised garden bed. We don't all have access to a green thumb, either. But no matter how you feel about your horticultural endeavors, and no matter which potent cultural or personal forces have made you feel that way — know that it doesn't say anything sweeping or irreversible about you.
The harrowing peace lily incident, while unpleasant, didn't end up changing my relationship with plant care at all. I'm now the owner of four healthy plants. (A crucial tweak in my care style: I don't refer to myself as their mother.) Shultz adopted a kitten, which is much cuter than a plant, and forgot all about Juniper Rose. The law student, I'm sure, has since given better-received gifts to more appreciative friends. We can all try plants again if we want, and if we don't want to that's fine too. There are other ways to brighten up apartments — amateur floral design, anyone?
For me, the plant mourning process was a much-needed reminder to be gentle with myself, to not let every setback become a referendum on my ability to succeed. "Ask yourself what meaning you are attaching to the death of this plant, and if it's fair," Resa, the therapist, said. "What does killing a plant say about you? When you ask yourself these words, you'll likely realize that you're being way too critical of yourself."
