Reflection #1: High Drama Plants vs. Low Drama Plants

Being a crazy plant lady, i see all the planty personalities playing out before me every day. On my porch. On my sills. On my shelves. Hanging by my windows. You get the picture.

I don’t want to give you the impression that i have a green thumb – i so do NOT. But plants are good companions for many reasons. For example, they tolerate my singing voice. My roommate’s chocolicous cat gives me judgy side-eye when the The Tenors and i perform Halleluiah “together”. My plants do not.

In caring for plants we see reflected principles that guide us in friendship, leadership, and life:

• Outgrown your space? Time to repot.
• Not everything that looks dead is beyond saving.
• Equality in love, equity in care – everyone has different light & nourishment needs
• Growth is not always visible at first
• Survive is not the same as thrive
• Pruning isn’t punishment
• Sound and touch – nurture takes more than water
• Propagation: how growth becomes legacy
• Soft signals matter – reading the leaves to guide action
• Embrace the cycle: Letting go, and welcoming the new
• Just keep moving toward the light

And…

• Water the quiet ones, too.

High vs. low drama plants.

As Mental Health Month comes to a close, i’ve been thinking about what plants teach us about checking in with those around us.

As you read this, i’m curious where it resonates in your own life. Maybe as a leader, a caregiver, a friend, a parent, a colleague, or simply as someone trying to navigate a complicated world with compassion.

I see this principle everywhere—in sales and leadership, in serving older adults, in supporting people and communities of diverse identities and lived experiences, and in my personal and professional relationships. The more people i meet, the more i’m reminded that needs are not always visible, and the people who appear strongest are not always the ones struggling least.

For plants, i refer in humor to “high and low drama”. What that reminds us of is this: Strength and struggle can coexist in ways we don’t immediately see.

Some plants are high drama plants.

You know the type.
The moment they get a little thirsty, they collapse into theatrical despair like a Victorian woman fainting onto a velvet chaise lounge.

One leaf draped dramatically (across the forehead).
Another curled inward.
An expression that somehow wails,

“wataaah… i need waterrrrrr…”

You rush over in a panic to the on-death’s-door Peace Lily or Basil, give them a sip, and suddenly they perk right back up like nothing ever happened.

La-dee-dah. All is well. Until the next disastrous FMD (Five Minute Drought), when they immediately recognize their needs and effectively communicate them.

Then there are the low drama plants.

The strong ones. The resilient. They stand tall and look vibrant even when their roots are running dry.

They don’t immediately show distress.
They don’t demand attention.
They don’t always let you know when they need care.

Just because puissant Pothos grew ten inches today doesn’t mean that soil couldn’t use a splash of some juicy water lovingly drawn from the bottom of the frog tank.

We can’t just provide care when pain is obvious.

Yes — take care of the needs we can clearly see.
Show up for those who ask for help.
Respond when someone tells you they’re struggling.

But don’t forget to check in with those who look okay.

Some carry exhaustion quietly.
Some suffer grief in silence.
Some bear loneliness behind a smile.
Some have become so used to surviving that they stop asking for water altogether.

Everyone we meet deserves our kindness, compassion, and care — not just when they visibly fall apart, but also when they’re doing their very best to hold themselves together.

So check on your strong friends.
Love people proactively.
Water the quiet plants when they need it, too.

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Above: A few of my plants. Some of these pictures are old – and some of these precious plants were lost in the frost this year. The cactuses were once a four-inch baby given to me by a fellow volunteer at the wolf refuge 10 years ago or more. I named him Olaf and his offspring, all named Olaf Jr. The prolonged freeze was too much. Now the original tree and the offspring are gone gone, but i did save three babies – all named Olaf Jr Jr, all healthy and growing – the legacy of Olaf.

One loss, the green fern-like i-don’t-know-what-it’s-called in the pic with the pink flowers – that beloved, thriving gem is gone forever. It was given to me by the artist who designed the cover of my book. It had gotten so big it was taking over the porch! I’m still watering the roots that were left, hoping for a sprout. We’re still in the growing and rebirth season, right? It’s hard to let go sometimes.

Above: These are my frogs – both named Fred. They have plants, too! I can’t believe those frogs are over 10 years old. They don’t look a day over 7. 🙂

Below: a few memories…