Growing up my mum’s love for plants was impossible to miss. Our house was more like a miniature jungle than a regular home. Every surface seemed to have a pot on it. The windowsills were crammed with plants (some more alive than others), the shelves were overflowing with ferns and even the bathroom had a few pots of trailing ivy hanging from hooks in the ceiling. Mum didn’t just like plants, she treated them like her children.
She would spend hours tending to her indoor plants. She would carefully wipe dust off leaves, trim away anything that looked even slightly unhealthy and rotate pots so every plant got its fair share of sunlight. As a child I didn’t understand why she put so much effort into something that didn’t talk back or move around. To me they were just plants, but to her they were more of a sense of purpose and fulfilment.
Her collection of orchids was her greatest pride. They sat on every windowsill in the house, their delicate flowers glowing in soft pinks, whites and purples. Mum treated them like royalty. She had special compost mixes for them and even kept a notebook where she wrote down their watering schedules complete with sticky notes on each pot. If one of them started to look unwell she would spring into action as if it were an emergency. She’d inspect its roots, adjust its light exposure and sometimes even talk to it softly as if her words could somehow help it recover.
A House Full of Rules
Having so many plants in the house came with its own set of rules. We weren’t allowed to run indoors because we might knock something over. Touching the leaves was forbidden unless Mum was there to supervise because “you’ll bruise them.” And under no circumstances were we ever allowed to mess with her orchids.
Of course, as kids do, I broke these rules more times than I can count. There was the time I accidentally knocked over her peace lily while chasing my brother through the living room or when I snapped a stem off her monstera while trying to squeeze past it in our crowded hallway. Each time I braced myself for a telling-off, but Mum never shouted at me. Instead, she would sigh deeply and then show me how to fix what I had done wrong.
I remember one incident when I spilled water all over the carpet while trying to help her water her plants. I thought she would be furious, but instead she laughed and said, “Well, at least the carpet will dry out.” Then she handed me a towel and showed me how to clean up the mess.
Lessons Without Realising
Looking back now I realise that those moments taught me more than just how to care for plants. They taught me patience and responsibility too. Mum’s approach to plant care wasn’t just about keeping them alive but was about understanding their needs and responding to them thoughtfully.
Even though I pretended not to care about Mum’s plants when I was younger, some part of me must have been paying attention. I started noticing little things like how she always checked the soil before watering or how she used a damp cloth to clean dust off leaves so they could “breathe better.” Sometimes I would even ask her why certain plants needed more light than others or how she knew when it was time to repot something.
Mum never pushed me to get involved if I didn’t want to but she always answered my questions with enthusiasm. She let me watch as she worked on her indoor jungle, teaching me without ever making it feel like a lesson.
At the time I didn’t think much of it. Plants were just Mum’s thing and certainly not mine. But now that I look back on those years, I can see that they planted seeds in my mind that would eventually grow into something much bigger.
Teenage Rebellion Among the Leaves
By the time I reached my teenage years Mum’s love for plants had turned our house into what felt like a rainforest. Every available surface was home to a pot, a vase, or a trailing vine. The monstera in the living room had grown so large it practically blocked the window and the kitchen shelves were lined with herbs and succulents.
As a teenager, I found it all suffocating. The plants weren’t just decorations; they were everywhere. It felt like there was no space for me in our house that wasn’t shared with Mum’s greenery. I started to resent them, seeing them as an extension of her rules and routines. If I left a mug on a windowsill, it would be moved because “I might damage a leaf, or knock an orchid flower off” If I opened a window too wide, she’d rush in to close it, worried about drafts harming her orchids.
The Orchid Incident
One day during one of my teenage “I’m a grown up” moment, I decided to water her orchids without asking. I thought I was being helpful or at least that’s what I told myself. In reality I think I was annoyed that she cared more about those plants than about letting me have my freedom. Instead of using the special spray bottle she kept for misting them, I grabbed a jug of tap water and poured it straight into the pots.
When Mum discovered what I’d done she just looked heartbroken. “Orchids don’t like tap water,” she said quietly as she inspected their roots for damage. Her disappointment stung more than any telling off could have done. I felt guilty, I didn’t even really like her plants, but I didn’t want to upset her all the same.
Looking back now I realise it wasn’t just about the orchids, it was about respect. Mum’s plants weren’t just her hobby they were her passion and a real sense of purpose inside the house. My careless act wasn’t just an attack on her plants, it was an attack on something she loved deeply.
Finding My Own Space
During those years my bedroom became my sanctuary, the one place in the house where there were no plants allowed. It was my way of rebelling against Mum’s obsession and carving out some independence for myself. But even then, she managed to sneak in a small spider plant under the guise of “helping with air quality.”
At first, I ignored it completely. It sat on my desk, its leaves drooping from neglect while I focused on schoolwork and spent hours scrolling through my phone. But over time, something changed. One day, out of boredom more than anything else, I gave it some water and wiped the dust off its leaves with an old T-shirt. To my surprise, it perked up almost immediately.
I started paying more attention to it after that. I noticed how its leaves seemed to stretch towards the sunlight coming through my window and how satisfying it was to see new shoots appear after watering it regularly. Without realising it, I’d started caring for that little spider plant not because Mum asked me to but because I wanted to see it thrive.
Lessons in Resilience
Teenage years are full of ups and downs friendship drama, exam stress, first heartbreaks and mine were no different. But amidst all that chaos, Mum’s plants became an unexpected source of comfort. They were always there: steady, unchanging and quietly growing no matter what else was going on around them.
I began to see parallels between their resilience and my own struggles during those years. Like me, they faced challenges wilting leaves from too much sun or drooping stems from not enough water but they always bounced back with a little care and attention.
Mum often said that plants teach us patience and resilience. At the time, her words felt like another one of her quirky sayings that didn’t mean much to me. But now I understand what she meant.
A Growing Appreciation
By the time I finished secondary school, my relationship with Mum and her plants had started to shift subtly but significantly. While I still rolled my eyes at her tendency to talk to her monstera or rearrange pots for optimal light exposure, part of me had started to appreciate what she’d been trying to teach me all along: that caring for something even something as simple as a houseplant can be an act of love.
Leaving Home, Taking Green with Me
When I left for university, I was desperate to escape. I wanted freedom, independence, and a space that wasn’t filled with Mum’s endless collection of plants. Packing up my childhood room felt like shedding an old skin. I stuffed clothes, books, and random bits of my life into suitcases and boxes, ready to start fresh. But as I zipped up the last bag, Mum appeared at the door holding a small pot.
It was a spider plant, one of her favourites. “Take this with you,” she said, placing it in my hands. “It’ll make your room feel more like home.” I wanted to roll my eyes, but there was something about the way she handed it to me that stopped me. It wasn’t just a plant; it was a piece of her, a reminder of everything she’d tried to teach me over the years.
I took it with me, though at first, I didn’t give it much thought. It sat on the windowsill in my tiny student room, looking out of place among the clutter of textbooks and takeaway containers.
A Lonely Start
University was exciting at first with new people, new experiences but it didn’t take long for the novelty to wear off. The nights were loud and chaotic in halls, but the days often felt lonely. My flatmates were nice enough, but we weren’t close. I spent a lot of time in my room, staring out at the grey skies or scrolling aimlessly through my phone.
That little spider plant became something of a companion during those quiet moments. It didn’t demand anything from me except the occasional splash of water and a bit of sunlight. Yet somehow, its presence made my room feel less empty. I started noticing how its leaves seemed to stretch towards the light or how new shoots would appear if I remembered to water it regularly.
One day, during a particularly stressful week of deadlines and homesickness, I called Mum for advice. She listened patiently as I vented about everything that was going wrong my coursework, my flatmates, even the weather. When I finally ran out of things to complain about, she asked casually, “How’s the spider plant doing?”
I glanced over at it and realised it looked healthier than ever its leaves bright green and full of life. “It’s fine,” I mumbled, feeling slightly embarrassed by how much comfort that little plant had brought me without me even realising it.
Expanding My Collection
By my second year at university, something unexpected happened: I started buying more plants. It began with a pothos vine. Its trailing leaves reminded me of the ones Mum had trained to climb along our kitchen cabinets back home. Then came a peace lily from a charity shop and a tiny cactus from a garden centre trip with friends.
Before long, my student room was starting to look like a miniature version of Mum’s house with plants on every windowsill and shelf, their greenery softening the harshness of the magnolia walls and cheap furniture.
Caring for them became part of my routine. Checking their soil moisture while waiting for my morning coffee to brew or wiping dust off their leaves during study breaks gave me something grounding to focus on amidst the chaos of university life.
Conversations That Grew
Mum loved hearing about my growing collection whenever we spoke on the phone. Our conversations shifted from her giving advice about watering schedules or pest control to us swapping tips like equals. She’d tell me about her latest orchid rescue project while I’d proudly share how my pothos had grown long enough to drape across my desk.
These chats weren’t just about plants but were about connection. They gave us common ground during a time when so much else in our lives felt different.
Lessons in Responsibility
Looking after those plants taught me more than just how to keep them alive; they taught me responsibility in ways I hadn’t expected. If I forgot to water them for too long or left them in direct sunlight for too many hours, they let me know by drooping or turning brown at the edges.
But they also taught me forgiveness because most of the time they bounced back with just a little care and attention which is something Mum had always said but that I only truly understood once I experienced it myself.
Coming Full Circle
By the time I graduated my collection had grown to nearly twenty plants crammed into every available space. Packing them up for the move back home was no small feat it took careful planning and more bubble wrap than I’d like to admit but there was no way I was leaving them behind.
As I carried box after box into Mum’s house that summer, she greeted me with a knowing smile. “Looks like you’ve caught the bug,” she said teasingly as she helped me find spots for all my pots among her own collection.
I laughed but didn’t deny it because by then it was true: somewhere along the way, her love for plants had become mine too.
A Plant Legacy
As I grew older, I began to see my mum’s indoor plant collection in a new light. What once seemed like a quirky obsession became something I deeply admired. It wasn’t just about the plants themselves; it was about the care, patience, and love she poured into them. But maintaining that lush indoor jungle was far from easy. Over the years, Mum faced countless challenges that tested her dedication and resilience.
One of the biggest struggles she dealt with was pests. I remember her frustration when spider mites invaded her beloved monstera. She spent hours researching natural remedies, mixing up concoctions of neem oil and water to spray on the leaves. “It’s like they’re waging war on me,” she’d mutter as she carefully wiped each leaf clean with a damp cloth. There were also battles with aphids, mealybugs, and the occasional fungus gnats that seemed to appear out of nowhere. Each time, she tackled the problem head-on, refusing to let her plants suffer without a fight.
Another challenge was finding the right balance of light and water for such a diverse collection. Our house wasn’t exactly flooded with natural light, especially during the long British winters when grey skies seemed to stretch on forever. Mum became an expert at moving plants around the house to find their perfect spot. The orchids always got pride of place on the sunniest windowsills, while shade-loving ferns thrived in darker corners. She even invested in grow lights for some of her more delicate plants, determined to keep them healthy no matter how dreary the weather became.
Watering was another delicate dance. Too much water could drown a plant’s roots, while too little would leave them parched and wilting. Mum had an almost uncanny ability to sense exactly what each plant needed. She’d stick her finger into the soil or lift a pot to check its weight, adjusting as necessary. But even she wasn’t immune to the occasional mistake. I remember the time she overwatered her fiddle-leaf fig and spent weeks nursing it back to health, carefully drying out its soil and pruning away damaged leaves.
Despite these challenges, Mum never gave up on her plants. If one started to look sickly or weak, she saw it as an opportunity to learn rather than a failure. She’d dig into gardening books or spend hours scrolling through online forums for advice. “Plants are resilient,” she’d say whenever I asked why she didn’t just throw out the ones that weren’t thriving. “They just need someone to believe in them.”
Her dedication paid off in ways that went beyond our home. Friends and neighbours often came to Mum for advice about their own struggling houseplants. She became something of a local expert, always ready with tips on how to revive a drooping peace lily or encourage a stubborn orchid to bloom again. Watching her share her knowledge so generously made me realise that her love for plants wasn’t just about creating beauty but about building connections and spreading joy.
When I eventually moved into my own flat after university, Mum helped me set up my first real indoor garden. We spent an entire weekend picking out pots and plants together everything from hardy pothos vines to more challenging calatheas that required constant attention. As we arranged them around my living room, she shared little nuggets of wisdom I’d heard a hundred times before but appreciated more than ever now that they were relevant to me.
“Don’t forget to dust their leaves,” she said as she handed me a soft cloth. “They can’t breathe properly if they’re covered in dust.”
“Water them in the morning,” she added, “so they have time to dry out.”
It didn’t take long for my flat to start resembling Mum’s house in miniature form. Plants filled every windowsill and corner, their greenery transforming my space into something warm and inviting. Caring for them became part of my daily routine checking their soil moisture while waiting for my coffee or rotating pots so they got even sunlight throughout the week.
Whenever I visited Mum, we’d spend hours talking about our plants and swapping stories about new growth or sharing tips on how to deal with pests. Our conversations felt like passing down family traditions, even though they were about something as simple as houseplants.
Over time, I realised that Mum’s love for plants had shaped more than just our home it had shaped who I was as a person too. Her patience and persistence taught me how to approach challenges with care rather than frustration; her willingness to learn showed me that mistakes were opportunities rather than failures; and her belief in resilience reminded me that growth takes time but is always worth it in the end.
This was a guest article by our good friend of Houseplant UK and indoor plant expert Lucy M.