“Gardening Disasters, Houseplant Chaos, and Back-to-School Nostalgia”

Let me just start by saying this: gardening is apparently not my superpower. I don’t know what kind of dark magic my houseplants and outdoor plants are cursed with, but no matter what I do, they seem determined to meet their doom under my care. I’ve tried everything—watering, not watering, singing to them, ignoring them… and yet, somehow, even the hardiest succulents glance at me and think, This is the end. I swear, if houseplants had a Yelp review section, mine would be rated “terrible caretaker, would not survive again.”

And it’s not just the plants indoors. No, the outside plants suffer the same fate. I plant marigolds, basil, a random daisy I thought looked cute—and then, poof. Gone. Dead before they even have a chance to think about blooming. What is this magic? This “sourcery”? How do people do it? I’ve seen neighbors with flourishing flowerbeds and perfectly trimmed hedges, and I’m convinced they’ve sold their souls to the plant gods. Meanwhile, I’m over here googling “why does my basil hate me?” and considering planting only fake plants from now on.

The Fear Factor

Part of my gardening hesitation isn’t even about my skills—it’s about family dynamics. I have these ideas of what I’d like to plant, colors I’d like to see, and arrangements that make me smile. But every time I start imagining a garden full of bright, cheerful flowers, my grandparents’ disapproving faces pop into my head. “No, we don’t like that color. That flower is silly. You’re doing it wrong.” And suddenly, I’m paralyzed, afraid to do the things I actually want.

It’s ridiculous, I know. A garden should be my sanctuary, my space of freedom. But when even small decisions feel like battles, I just end up planting safe, boring things—or avoiding gardening entirely. I’d love to plant bright sunflowers that tower over everything, or whimsical pink and purple flowers that make me smile every morning. Instead, I stick to “acceptable” greens and neutrals, and even those seem to rebel against me.

The Back-to-School Feeling

The other day, I was wandering through the store and—oh no—they had back-to-school displays out already. Not even August yet, and I was transported straight back to childhood. Rows of fresh notebooks, perfectly sharpened pencils, backpacks that smelled like new possibilities… it woke something in me I didn’t know I still had.

I am addicted to these displays. It’s almost embarrassing how excited I get. I remember lining up in my little classroom, smelling the crayons, feeling that mix of nerves and anticipation. And now, as an adult, seeing those displays made me want to grab a notebook, pick out the prettiest pens, and just… start over. Go back to school, redo it, and do everything better. I’d participate in class more, make more friends, ask the questions I was too shy to ask, and this time I wouldn’t be scared of making mistakes.

There’s something comforting in that nostalgia, a reminder of a time when everything felt like possibility, before responsibilities, deadlines, and parenting chaos. I think about it constantly—how different life might feel if I could recapture that excitement and optimism. And somehow, that back-to-school glow collided with my garden anxiety, because I started wondering: Why can’t I approach gardening like I approached school? With curiosity, mistakes, and excitement, instead of fear?

The Gardening Chronicles

I’ve had a few notable disasters recently. One morning, I decided to repot a tiny fern I’d been nurturing indoors. I gently loosened the roots, added fresh soil, and positioned it near the window. The next morning? Brown, crisp leaves staring back at me, as if saying, We tried, and we failed. Then there was the basil fiasco. I planted three little sprouts on the balcony, watered them religiously, and—after a week—the leaves started curling and dropping. I don’t even know what happened. Did they get stage fright?

And let’s not forget my “flowering ambitions,” the bold idea of planting zinnias in bright reds and oranges. I imagined a riot of color, bees buzzing, a little hummingbird stopping by. What I got instead was a sad patch of dirt where hopes went to die. Honestly, I think my plants are passive-aggressively plotting against me.

Sometimes I think about just giving up, buying fake flowers, and calling it a day. But then I catch a glimpse of a neighbor’s tulips swaying in the breeze, or a photo of a perfectly grown sunflower online, and I think, No. I want that too. I can do this. I just… can’t yet.

Trying Anyway

So, what’s the lesson? I think it’s this: fear and perfectionism will kill a garden faster than under-watering or too much sun. Even if my grandparents don’t like the colors I choose, or my plants rebel, I need to plant what makes me happy. Maybe it will die, maybe it won’t—but at least I tried. And sometimes, trying is better than perfect results.

I’m also letting myself buy school supplies. I don’t care if it’s silly. I bought a notebook with a glittery cover, some colored pens, and a ruler that makes me feel like a little kid again. It reminds me that experimenting, failing, and learning is okay—both in school and in the garden.

Imaginary Garden Dreams

I daydream about it a lot: a backyard full of flowers I love, a little corner where I can sit with my coffee and my notebook, writing down blog posts while bees buzz around me. Maybe one day I’ll even plant vegetables, though I imagine the zucchini and I will have a mutual understanding of failure. But I think the joy comes not just from success, but from the act of trying—digging the dirt, planting seeds, seeing what happens, and occasionally laughing at the disasters.

And maybe I’ll let the kids help too. It’ll be messy, chaotic, and probably disappointing at times, but it’ll also be ours. It’ll be full of mistakes and laughter, memories and tiny triumphs, just like the notebooks and pens in the back-to-school aisle remind me of childhood.

The Takeaway

So yes, my garden may be cursed. My houseplants may glare at me silently from their pots. But that doesn’t mean I stop planting. I won’t let fear of judgment or failure hold me back anymore. I’ll plant the flowers I like, even if someone else doesn’t approve. I’ll water, sing, and maybe talk to the plants like they’re old friends. I’ll fail, I’ll learn, I’ll try again.

And maybe one day, when I walk past a back-to-school display with my coffee in hand, I’ll look out the window at my little garden and think: I did it. Even if imperfectly, I did it.

The Plant Diary (or How My Garden Secretly Judges Me)

I’ve started keeping a little “plant diary” because sometimes, you just have to laugh at yourself. Here are some highlights:

Day 1: Planted basil. Watered carefully. Told it it would be okay. Felt optimistic.

Day 3: Basil leaves curling. Feeling personally attacked. Considered apologizing.

Day 5: Sunflower seeds planted. Imagined them growing tall and majestic. Realized I forgot to water them. Regret intensifies.

Day 7: Fern looking sad. Thinks I’m a terrible roommate. Promised to do better tomorrow. Also, forgot to rotate it toward the light.

Day 10: Bought a tiny succulent because “it can’t die, right?” Wrong. Its leaves are brown. Considering a plant funeral.

Day 14: Zinnias sprouting. Actually sprouting! Optimism returns. Kids named them “Bob,” “Larry,” and “Sassy.” Feeling proud.

Day 20: Noticed weeds overtaking everything. Argued with them. Lost. Vowed to fight again tomorrow.

Day 25: Watered everything while humming. Plants seem mildly offended. Maybe that’s a good thing.

Even if my garden is chaotic, my plants die, and my grandparents might roll their eyes, this diary reminds me that trying and laughing is part of the fun. Some days I fail spectacularly. Some days a little green survives. And some days, I just sit with a notebook and a cup of coffee, watching tiny sprouts and imagining what could be—and that’s enough.

Because the real victory isn’t a perfect garden. It’s doing it anyway, despite fear, failure, and judgment. It’s planting what you love, laughing at the disasters, and remembering that even if life is messy, it can also be beautiful.

With love, messy hands, and a slightly chaotic garden,

Hope