I was never meant to be a plant person. I’m the woman who can kill a succulent on the way home from the store. Once, a fern sighed in my direction and gave up. That is my spiritual gift.
My grandpa Dominic would have laughed—hard. He loved to laugh. And sing hymns passionately in Italian. He was an Italian immigrant who lost his arm working in a mill, and still, he woke up every morning and dressed like dignity itself. He shopped for my grandma. He fixed what was broken. And he tended the biggest, happiest garden you’ve ever seen.
Meanwhile, I’m over here Googling “Is brown a plant color?” and “Can you apologize to leaves?”
About a year ago, I caved and bought one of those pots with a built‑in reservoir—the kind you water once a month and then, if you’re me, pray over. It felt like cheating, but I was tired of committing plant manslaughter. Friends, I can’t explain what happened next. The thing lived. Then it flourished. It grew so much that today, at lunchtime, I had to repot it.
I set everything out on my office table like a science experiment: fresh soil, gloves, the new pot with that mysterious little water chamber that feels like magic. And Coconut Coir—what even is that? I loosened the roots—gently, like I knew what I was doing. I hoped the plant wouldn’t call my bluff. I made a space in the center, tucked the plant in, and pressed the soil around it like you pat a blanket after tucking someone in for a nap.
When I was done, I stepped back and laughed out loud. This plant looked…happy. Taller. Braver, even. And I heard my grandpa in my head saying something in his beautiful Italian accent that meant, roughly, “See? You did it. Of course you did it.” To be fair, when I was little, I understood him about as well as I understood long division, so he could’ve also been saying, “You want some meatballs?”
I always thought growth was about adding more—more light, more water, more knowledge. But as I was sliding that little tree into its new container, I realized how often growth starts with release. The roots had circled themselves tight, clinging to the only world they’d ever known. They could survive like that for a while, but not flourish. Not stretch. Not become.
So we loosened the grip. We made space. We moved to a container that could hold what was next.
I’m not going to write a list of life lessons here. (I promised my plants and my people I’d stop bossing everyone around.) But if there’s a whisper tucked inside the dirt under my fingernails today, it’s this: sometimes the kindest thing we can do for ourselves is admit we’re root‑bound. The places we used to go. The bad habits we secretly like. The version of ourselves that once kept us safe. Maybe it’s time for a new container.
Because repotting ourselves—like repotting a plant—takes a little loosening, a little mess, and a whole lot of grace. It’s not glamorous. You get dirt on your desk and in your shoes. You second‑guess the new spot by the window. You wonder if you did the right thing. And then one morning, you notice a new leaf unfurling like a tiny green flag and you think, Oh—hello there. Look at you.
My grandpa would’ve loved that part. He loved anything that grew after it had every reason not to. Maybe that’s what I inherited from him after all—not the green thumb, but the stubborn hope. Especially his faith in Jesus, the kind that keeps showing up, dressing up, and tending what you can with what you have.
I believe in Jesus, and I like to talk about Him. If you don’t believe as I do, that’s okay. You’re still welcome in this space, and I’m really glad you’re here.
This plant and I are going to be just fine. She almost looks taller now, with room to stretch and the kind of quiet confidence that comes from being given another chance. And in case you’re wondering, yes, she has a name. We’re still working on options, but today she feels like a “Dommie”—a sweet little nod to the man who taught me that loss doesn’t get the last word and that growth can be both ordinary and holy.
As for me, I’ll keep watering once a month, but praying much more often. I’ll keep loosening the old patterns that kept me small. I’ll keep making space for a life that fits the person I’m becoming.
New pot. Same plant. More room for grace.
by Traci Rhoades 
by Brooke Griffin Farmer 
by Carolyn Moore 
