There’s no easy way to admit this, you guys.
The plant that once symbolized my survival is barely surviving. And it’s all my fault. (No, not Fronda. Fronda is alive and well and in the shower right now, actually.)
I’m not exactly sure how this happened.
She started here, as my fresh, new companion for one of the hardest years of my parenting life. (See the post.)
She grew into this, when we both came out of that year stronger. (See the post.)
But after that… The details get foggy. I think, eventually, she grew too big for the kitchen window sill? She may have landed in the living room for a stint? And then moved to the loft office? Anyway, at some point, clearly, I forgot she existed.
Until recently.
My plant-care license should be permanently revoked. Holy cow. Say a prayer for Fronda.
But here’s what I now know about my stubborn little plant: She’s a survivor.
During her months of struggle, she shed all but the bare necessities. She stretched, reached, and craned toward the light. She hardened her stem. She hunkered down. She did not give up.
I feel I can relate to her even more now.
She lost the lush beauty of her youth, but she is somehow (to me) more beautiful and beloved than ever. And, perhaps, with a little TLC, she may regain some of her original splendor.
Either way, she’s about to be my companion for another incredibly challenging year of parenting. In just six short months, she and I will be rattling around R-house without any of our favorite people living here—and a whole new chapter of life will fully begin.
But we’ve both proven we can flourish through struggle. And so far I’ve kept Fronda alive. So, I’m pretty sure…we’ll be fine.
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Here’s to surviving, flourishing, and forgiving yourself for neglecting your plants, friends.
xo
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