On plant failures and learning

I've killed more plants than I've kept alive. A peace lily that yellowed despite perfect conditions. An orchid that bloomed once and never again. A vegetable garden that never produced anything.

For a long time, I treated these as failures. Then I realized: every dead plant taught me something about what doesn't work. Those lessons are worth something.

The First Deaths

My first big failure was overwatering. I thought if a little water was good, a lot must be better. I killed three plants before understanding that more care doesn't always mean more intervention. Sometimes the right move is to step back.

The second wave was light. I had a corner that looked bright to me but wasn't bright enough. Plant after plant declined. I finally moved them and they thrived.

What Failure Teaches

Each dead plant was feedback. I was asking the wrong questions at first — "Why did this die?" — until I learned to ask better ones: "What was this plant telling me, and did I listen?"

A plant that dies is your system showing you where your assumptions were wrong. The soil wasn't right. The light wasn't right. Your watering schedule didn't match the actual humidity.

These aren't moral failures. They're data. They're information.

The Acceptance

I've made peace with killing plants. Not because I want to. But because learning requires failure. I could grow only the easiest plants and never learn. Or I could try harder things, fail sometimes, and learn faster.

There's a plant I've tried three times. I kill it every time. I know what I'm doing wrong (overwatering, poor drainage), but I haven't fully committed to the changes. Maybe next year I will. Or maybe I'll accept that this plant isn't for me, and that's okay too.

Failure as Essential

The gardeners with the most beautiful gardens are the ones who've failed the most. They've learned what works through a lot of what doesn't. Failure isn't the opposite of success — it's the path to it.

In product work, in audit, in marketing, I've learned the same thing. The failure I'm afraid of isn't the opposite of winning. It's how you learn to win.

So I kill plants. I learn. I try again. That's not failure. That's gardening.