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CONFESSIONS of a Serial Plant Killer: my unending quest for a green thumb
by Judi Moreo
I
t all started with a succulent. You know, the plant that even people who hate plants allegedly can’t kill. Armed with optimism, a Pinterest board titled "Indoor Oasis," and a trendy terra-cotta pot, I brought home a tiny jade plant, certain that it would mark the beginning of my lush, botanical future. Two weeks later, it was dead. I don't know how it happened. I gave it sunlight. I gave it water. I whispered positive affirmations to it while scrolling through
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"plant mom" memes. And yet, there it sat, drooping like a deflated balloon, a small accusatory petal falling to the floor every time I walked by. This, I would learn, was not an isolated incident. It turns out I am what horticulturalists kindly call a "black thumb"—a person whose mere proximity to greenery seems to trigger spontaneous plant despair. Over the years, I’ve committed acts of botanical manslaughter against spider plants, peace lilies, English ivy, fiddle-leaf figs, and one particularly unfortunate bonsai tree.