Couch Rot.
There is a specific delusion that arrives right after you realize you have a green thumb.
It begins innocently. One pothos. A snake plant. Something forgiving. Something that thrives on neglect, the way you thrive on mild chaos. They grow. They unfurl. They forgive you. You feel chosen.
And then you move into a tiny studio apartment, which, in fact, is not a greenhouse. Even if it feels that way in contrast to the bitter January ice.
Now there are an uncountable number of living organisms photosynthesizing in 400 square feet. The air is technically fresher but emotionally humid. Every horizontal surface has become a biome, a space to squeeze in another pot. The windows need no curtains, as it has become a competitive arena of rope hangers for light.
I told myself I was cultivating calm. Connecting to my matriarchs.
Instead, I have created a leafy prison.
They have needs. They lean toward the sun in unison like they are lazing vegetal chez. I rotate them weekly to prevent them from gorging themselves. I mist them, trim their excess, and yet… I know what they are up to.
You see, a struggling plant humbles you. A thriving plant multiplies. They are attempting a coup as they stretch and sprawl fresh buds.
Friends come over and say, “It feels so alive in here.”
Yes. That’s because there is an army of silent witnesses to my life choices.
Outside, the country is on fire at all times. The flames echo elsewhere; the smoke travels; everyone is tired on a global scale. I scroll until my nervous system feels like overwatered soil. I absorb headlines the way my pothos absorbs afternoon light, relentlessly, without discernment.
There is a specific paralysis that follows that kind of overwhelm. A soft collapse. The couch becomes a continent. “Couch rot,” they call it, as if it’s a fungal infection instead of a coping strategy. And honestly? It is sweet. It is warm. It asks nothing of me except horizontal existence.
The plants, meanwhile, continue their upward ambitions.
They do not care about geopolitics. They do not doomscroll. They do not lie down dramatically and whisper, “I simply cannot.” They just reach the light. Persist. It’s frankly a little smug.
So I lie there, half-buried in throw blankets, watching my indoor forest encroach on my square footage, wondering if this is what resilience looks like now: a woman in a studio apartment, tending chlorophyll while the world simmers, occasionally surrendering to the holy bliss of doing absolutely nothing.
The truth is: a green thumb is not a gift. It’s an enabling condition.
Because once you know you can keep something alive, you will try to keep everything alive. Even yourself. Even your hope. Even your ability to rest in the middle of it all.
You will drag home one more philodendron like it is a stray animal that chose you. You will convince yourself that this one will “fit.”
It will not fit.
But it will grow.
And you will make room.
Eventually. After the nap.
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