Every semester, I have this urge to purchase a new plant for my room. I’ll walk to the plant shop blatantly disregarding the death of its predecessor, unfazed by the two shriveled leaves from my once-thriving Monstera. Despite their short lifespans, I firmly believe that a room is only complete when there is a touch of green in the corner. I choose a new store every time — the risk of being recognized is too high! Then, throughout the semester, I’ll watch the little thing grow a leaf or two and dream of it becoming a tree someday, only to see it transform into a withered twig. I’ve come to learn that indulging in this process of growth and decay teaches us the importance of harnessing meaning from fleeting moments.
The death of a houseplant is a painful experience — there is no denying it. I’ve carried the blame of multiple houseplants in my days at Brown, each one a quiet reminder of responsibility gone awry. But lately, I’ve been rethinking this routine. Maybe the outcome isn’t what matters most. Instead, I’ve come to believe that caring for a plant — despite its fate — is valuable in and of itself. The act of nurturing, of pouring time and attention into something with the hope that it will grow, is deeply human and, in many ways, necessary. This impulse to cultivate reflects our innate desire to find meaning by investing in something beyond ourselves. In this way, plants offer a valuable lesson about college life, particularly its most tumultuous moments: we must embrace the temporary, for even ephemeral things hold lasting significance.
Plants thrive best in stable environments: constant temperatures, steady light and regular watering are necessary for healthy flora. Unfortunately, very few home environments are as unstable as that of a college student. Every semester ushers in a wave of novelty. Changing class schedules, new roommates and constant moving from dorm to dorm all pose a risk to the delicate requirements of our green guests.
The transient nature of student life can make it difficult to justify keeping a plant. With every semester, it is only natural to question whether it’s worth investing time in making our college spaces feel like home. After all, why pour effort into something that will soon be left behind? But while change can be unnerving, it often opens doors to unexpected joys. I find that putting time into making your dorm your own turns a rather transient year into a more enriching one. The more we engage with our surroundings, however temporary, the more meaning we derive from them. A plant that lasts only a few weeks is no less precious for its brevity. Similarly, fostering a connection with the neighbor next door — who may only be around for a few months — could transform a quiet Sunday night into a shared moment of laughter with a friend just across the hall. The novel friendships and experiences we nurture, even in passing, tend to have a way of resurfacing in surprising ways.
In my most recent routine visit to a plant shop, I had a long conversation with the employee who discouraged me from buying a more adventurous plant. She explained that the tropical plant I was admiring wouldn’t stand a chance in a New England college living environment. Oftentimes, she said, the odds are rigged against dreamers of the green corner. Shops, eager to cater to trends, will sell plants ill-suited to the Providence climate. I was fooled by the lure of a prayer plant — twice. As much as I loved my prayers, they were never meant to survive in the dry, sunless months.
It was an oddly refreshing realization. It reminded me that sometimes things escape our control and that a change of course is only natural. For instance, if you came to Brown determined to pursue a particular concentration but then were pulled in another direction, embrace that diversion. Maybe it’s important to buy a new plant every semester, not as a futile attempt to correct past mistakes, but as a quiet act of renewal.
So, if you are looking to acquire a new plant this semester, take heart — your track record of plant survival, or lack thereof, doesn’t define you. If you want something resilient, I say start with the classics: succulents, snake plants or a pothos. If you’re willing to try a bit harder, a Zanzibar Gem
or a rubber plant is a great choice — they will forgive a missed watering or two (or five). For best care, I recommend naming your plant; my last two prayers were called Grace and Frankie, respectively. At the end of the day, your plant may thrive, or it may not. But in the act of caring, of nurturing something despite the uncertainty, there’s a lesson worth holding onto. And worst-case scenario, there’s always next semester.
Julia Barrozo ’26 can be reached at julia_barrozo_do_amaral@brown.edu. Please send responses to this column to letters@browndailyherald.com and other opinions to opinions@browndailyherald.com.
