GERALD THE DISAPPOINTED PLANT

GERALD THE DISAPPOINTED PLANT

I once tried to improve my life by buying a houseplant.

This was ambitious because I am a person who has apologized to a cactus.

I named the plant Gerald because giving something a name makes you feel responsible for it, and also because Gerald felt like the kind of plant who would forgive me for forgetting to water him on Tuesdays. He lived on my kitchen windowsill, leaning slightly toward the sun like he was eavesdropping on the neighbors.

Every morning, I greet him, “Morning Gerald,” I’d say, while making coffee strong enough to rewrite my personality. Gerald never answered, which I appreciated. We had a very respectful relationship.

One day, feeling proud and adult, I decided to reorganize my kitchen. I moved the toaster. I wiped a counter. I even found a measuring spoon I’d been missing since 2014. Riding this wave of productivity, I relocated Gerald to what I believed was a better light situation.

It was not.

By day three, Gerald looked… philosophical. His leaves drooped in a way that suggested he was thinking deeply about mortality, or maybe just judging me. I panicked and did what any reasonable person would do: I googled “Why does my plant look disappointed in me?”

The internet told me Gerald needed water, or less water, or more sun, or to be spoken to kindly. One site suggested playing classical music. Another site suggested whispering affirmations.

So, there I was crouched in my kitchen playing Mozart on my phone and saying “You are thriving, Gerald,” while my neighbor walked past the window and absolutely reconsidered every opinion, they’d ever had about me.

I moved Gerald back to his original spot. I apologized sincerely. I meant it.

A week later, Gerald perked up. New leaves appeared. Bright, defiant green leaves. It felt personal. Like he was saying, “See? I gave you another chance.”

That’s when I realize something important. I don’t need to have everything figured out. I don’t need to be perfect. Sometimes showing up, saying hello, and trying again is enough-even if you do it while whispering encouragement to a plant.

Gerald is still on my windowsill. I’m still not great at life. But every morning, I make my coffee, greet my plant, and feel like maybe-just maybe-we’re both doing okay.

And if Gerald ever does start talking back, I think I’ll listen.

This matters because Tuesdays are already emotionally unstable.

I was halfway through my coffee when I notice something was… off. Gerald’s newest leaf was pointing in a different direction. Not toward the sun. Not toward the window.

Toward me.

I stared at it.

Gerald stared back in the way only a plant can-by existing with intent.

“Don’t do this,” I told him. “I’ve been supportive.”

I went to work and tried to forget about it, but all day I kept thinking about that leaf. Had it been like that before? Was I imagining things? Was these how haunted houses start except quieter and with better lighting.

When I got home, the leaf had moved again.

I know this because I took a picture earlier. Not for evidence-just because I thought it looked cute. But now there it was undeniable proof that Gerald was repositioning himself like a leafy sun dial.

I did what any rational adult would do. I called my best friend.

“Hey,” I said. “Hypothetically, if a plant was… watching you- “

“Nope,” she replied immediately. “Not finishing that sentence.”

I hung up and addressed Gerald directly.

“Look,” I said crouching to his level, “If you are going to become sentient, I need boundaries. No judging. No haunting. And absolutely no moving when I’m sleeping.”

Gerald’s leaves rustled softly, probably from the air vent. Definitely not ominous.

After that, things changed-but in small polite ways. I started noticing Gerald reacted to my moods. When I was stressed, his leaves drooped a little, like he was sighing with me. When I laughed on the phone, he seemed… brighter. Healthier. Possibly smug.

One evening after a truly bad day-the kind where you cry over a missing sock-I sat on the kitchen floor and talked to him.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I admitted. “I keep trying to be better, but mostly I’m just tired.”

Gerald leaned towards me, ever so slightly.

I laughed. Out loud. Through tears. Because here I was having a moment with a plant, and somehow it felt… comforting. Like maybe growth didn’t have to be loud or dramatic. Maybe it happened quietly, leaf by leaf.

Now I leave a little extra space on the windowsill just in case Gerald needs it. I play him music-not Mozart anymore, but soft playlists titled things like Gentle Mornings and It’s okay, you’re Trying.

And sometimes, when I wake up and see a new leaf unfurling, I swear it feels like encouragement.

Or maybe that’s just me learning to grow in my own strange sideways way-right alongside a plant who never once asked me to be perfect.

But still.

On Tuesdays, I keep an eye on him.

The thing about Tuesdays is that they never stay quiet for long.

The following Tuesday, I woke up late, burned my toast, and put my shirt on inside out. Gerald was already awake. I could tell because his leaves were doing that alert, slightly perky thing, like he had espresso.

“Good morning to you too,” I muttered.

While I brushed my teeth, I caught my reflection in the mirror and practiced my I am a functioning adult face. When I turned back to the kitchen I froze.

Gerald had dropped a leaf.

Not in a tragic way. More like… deliberate. The leaf lay on the counter perfectly placed, as if he’d set it there and stepped back to admired his work.

“No,” I said. “We talked about boundaries.

I picked up. It was green. Healthy. A leaf that had chosen freedom.

All day, I carried it with me like a tiny, leafy talisman. It rode in my pocket. It sat next to my keyboard. It listened while I complained to my coworker about emails that started with per my last message. Somehow, having it nearly made everything feel less sharp.

When I got home, Gerald looked proud.

“Did you give me that?” I asked.

His leaves tilted. I swear they did.

From then on, Tuesdays became our thing. Every Tuesday, Gerald would drop a leaf. Not many. Just one. A small reminder that letting go didn’t have to mean losing everything. Sometimes it meant making room.

I started pressing the leaves into a book. Not a fancy book-an old notebook I’d never finished because page one had to be perfect and it never was. The leaves made it better. Softer. Human.

The notebook filled with pressed green moments and scribbled thoughts. Bad jokes. Half-formed dreams. Lists that started with get life together and ended with buy more plants.

One Tuesday, after a long silence between us, I whispered, “Are you teaching me something?”

Gerald didn’t answer. He never did.

But the next leaf he dropped was smaller than the rest. New. Just starting out.

I smiled so hard my face hurt.

Because maybe growth isn’t about becoming something impressive. Maybe it’s about small, brave offerings. About showing up each week and saying, here, this is what I have today.

And if a plant could do that for me-well.

I figure I could try too.

By the time spring arrived, Gerald had developed a reputation.

Friends came over and pretended not to notice him at first, but eventually everyone did the same thing: they drifted closer to the window sill, squinted a little and said, “Is it just me, or does that plant have… vibes”

“He’s supportive,” I told them. “Emotionally available. Doesn’t interrupt.”

One friend waved at him. Gerald did not wave back, which somehow made him more powerful.

Spring meant open windows, softer air and the belief that I could reorganize my entire life in one weekend. It also meant Gerald started growing faster, like he decided this was his season and intended to be dramatic about it. New leaves everywhere. Confidence. Flourish.

One morning, I found him leaning so far toward the light that half his pot had lifted off the sill.

“Okay,” I said, steadying him. “Ambition is good. Gravity is non-negotiable.”

That same day, I got an email I’d been quietly dreading-one of those polite, professional messages that manages to say we regret to inform you without using any of those words. I sat at the kitchen table staring at the screen, feeling that familiar sinking, like I’d misplaced something important inside myself.

I looked at Gerald.

He was still leaning toward the window, still reaching.

I don’t know why, but it made me laugh. A real laugh. The kind that surprises you.

“Well,” I said, closing my laptop. “If you’re allowed to try again, I guess I am too.”

That afternoon, I watered Gerald, water myself (hydration matters), and opened the notebook with the pressed leaves. I didn’t write a plan. I didn’t write goals. I just wrote the truth:

Today was hard. But I noticed the light.

Later, as the sun dipped low, Gerald dropped another leaf. Not a Tuesday. An exception.

I took it as a bonus. Or maybe a reminder that rules can bend when kindness is involved.

Now, when people ask how I’m doing, I don’t say “fine” as quickly. I say, “I’m growing.” And if they raise an eyebrow, I smile and add, “sideways mostly.”

Gerald is still on my windowsill, reaching for the light like its promised him something. I sit nearby, doing the same thing in my own clumsy, hopeful way.

And some mornings, when the sun hits just right, it feels like we’re both exactly where we’re supposed to be-

A little messy, a little green, and quietly, wonderfully alive.