I used to struggle with plants. When I first started bringing them into my home, I wanted so badly to care for them, to nurture them into lush, thriving beings. But it wasn’t long before the leaves would yellow, stems would droop, and one by one, many of them would die under my care. I couldn’t bring myself to look at them. Every time I did, I saw failure staring back at me. Their decline felt like a direct reflection of my inability to get my life together. When I struggled, they struggled, and that truth was unbearable.
At one point, desperate to change my luck, I called my dad. He has an impressive green thumb—he once told me that the leaves of his plants lift when he steps into his yard. I asked him for his secret, expecting some groundbreaking insight. His response?
“Well, Fabiola, at the end of the day, they’re plants,” he said. “They’re gonna do what they wanna do. You can’t force them to do anything.”
What a letdown… I thought.
As time went on, however, I realized the wisdom in his words. Plants, like bodies and souls, need care—but they also need space. They’re not machines you can program; they have their own rhythm, their own nature. You can love them, nurture them, give them the right conditions, but ultimately, they’re going to grow as they’re meant to. And you have to love them through every stage of the process.
An Aloe’s Wisdom
One day I was laying on my bed staring at the aloe vera plant perched on the high shelf of my bedroom window. Its leaves weren’t stretching out in the symmetrical, picture-perfect way I wanted them to. For a long time I remember looking at it thinking that something was wrong with it–and by extension, something was wrong with me for not being able to “fix” it.
Then, one day, as I had this same thought again, I swear I heard the plant speak back in its own quiet defiance:
“I’m not ugly. I’m beautiful.”
I was stunned.
I realized in that moment that I’d been projecting all my unkind thoughts about myself onto this innocent, beautiful plant. I wasn’t seeing it for what it was—resilient, unique, alive. I was seeing it through the lens of my own self-criticism. The aloe was protecting itself from my negativity, almost demanding that I acknowledge its beauty and worth.
I started looking at my plants differently. Each one was beautiful in its own way—not for fitting into a preconceived mold of perfection, but simply for existing, for striving toward life. It hit me that the way I’d been seeing my plants wasn’t about them at all. It was about how I saw myself.
The Body as a Sacred Plant
This realization changed not just how I cared for my plants but how I approach my work with clients. When someone comes to my table for a session, they sometimes express frustration, even hatred, toward their bodies. They’ll talk about the parts they despise or the ways they feel their body has failed them. I don’t correct them or dismiss their feelings. I know how real and heavy those emotions can be. But in my mind, I silently thank their body. I thank it for all it has endured, for all it does to keep them alive, for how it carries them through a world that’s so often unkind—a world that constantly tells us we’re not enough.
I’ve come to know that our bodies are like plants in so many ways. They respond to how we treat them, not just physically but emotionally. When we speak harshly to ourselves, when we see failure instead of beauty, we wound our bodies and souls in subtle but profound ways. But when we choose to be kind—to see ourselves with the same adoration we might feel for a blooming flower—we create the conditions for growth and healing.
Reaching for the Sun
There’s a line I heard in a documentary that has stayed with me: “The thing that is in the flower that makes it reach toward the sun, that’s inside of us too.” That’s what I think about when I look at my plants now, and it’s what I think about when I see someone lying on my table. There’s something innate in all of us—a life force, a quiet resilience, a drive to grow toward the light no matter how challenging the conditions. It’s not always easy to see, especially when we’re weighed down by expectations and self-doubt. But it’s there, patiently waiting for us to notice.
A Gentle Reminder
The next time you look in the mirror, try to see yourself the way you might see a plant. Instead of focusing on what you think is wrong, look for what’s alive, what’s beautiful. Thank your body for everything it does, for everything it’s been through. Like a plant, it’s not here to be perfect. It’s here to grow, to adapt, to reach toward the light in its own unique way.
You may find that in learning to care for yourself, you’re also learning to let yourself be cared for by the world around you. Because at the end of the day, as my dad wisely put it, “you can’t force them to do anything.” You can only love them through the process.
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