🌸🌿 Even If We Don’t Speak, Something Grew

🌿 Even If We Don’t Speak, Something Grew

What My Spider Plant Mirrored Back to Me

A Story of Silent Survival & Rooted Memory

There’s a plant in my window I never asked for.

It arrived during a time when I wasn’t exactly thriving, physically, emotionally or otherwise. A small gesture from a dear friend, planted, not just in soil, but in the strange pause between survival and surrender. Back then, I didn’t think it would last. I wasn’t sure I would last.
But somehow… it did.
Quietly.
Without demand.
Without being dramatic.
Just - rooting.
Like I’ve learned to do.

She gave it to me from her own windowsill; a cutting from a plant she had somehow kept alive in a pot so tiny I still don’t know how it fit. It wasn’t wrapped in ceremony. Just a gift between friends who had shared countless memories in a life chapter that wasn’t glamorous, but was real. We had laughed, struggled, vented, and shared food and silence. And somewhere in that unspoken trust, she gave me a piece of something living.

For months, the plant sat quietly in its new container, unsure of whether it wanted to stay. I didn’t pressure it. I barely interacted with it. I wasn’t sure I could give it what it needed, I could barely give that to myself. So I added a water globe and left it alone.

It grew anyway.

Almost a year later, I looked over and realized: this thing is thriving. Not dramatic. Not attention-seeking. Just… alive. And suddenly, I had a thought: maybe, one day, I could take a piece of it and pass it on to my daughters. As if something I received in a hard season could become a quiet heirloom.

So I tried to reach out. I took a photo of the plant and sent it to the friend who gave it to me. To say, “Look—it lived.”

But the message bounced back.

I don’t know why. Maybe she changed her number. Maybe I’m blocked. Maybe the universe rerouted the connection for reasons I’m not meant to understand. All I know is that the message never sent.

And yet… something grew.

This isn’t a blog about grief or complaint. It’s a love note in disguise. A quiet reflection on how friendships don’t always last or just pause, but the things they gave us sometimes do. Sometimes, just not being discarded is enough for something to root. To grow. To live.

That plant is now a metaphor for me.

I am a Reflector. I survive without instruction. I grow in silence. I observe more than I act. And like that little green being on my windowsill, I often appear still, but I am always becoming.

It reminds me how Reflectors don’t push for survival, we mirror the possibility of it. In the right soil, even the most fragile presence finds its way. Not by proving, but by simply existing in tune with the environment.

There are so many plants that don’t make it. Not because they were weaker, but because the space around them didn’t recognize what they needed. This one did. And maybe that says something about me too.

But the story doesn’t end there.

Just recently, I looked at the plant again.
And this time…
it had created new life.

A long, delicate shoot extended outward and from it, a tiny version of itself, a baby plant, had begun to grow.

It wasn’t forced.
It just happened.

And in that moment, I saw it clearly:
This is me.

For all the times I thought I had nothing to offer, 
I now realize I’ve been forming new life quietly.
Reflecting life.
Holding space for it.

And somehow, in the stillness I once judged…
something generational has begun.

Maybe my friend saw something in me I didn’t.
Maybe she gave me that plant, not just because it was “easy,”
but because, deep down, she sensed what I needed.
She is fire. Healing-through-action.
And I...
I am the mirror she couldn’t decode.

There were times when my presence stirred things I didn’t intend to stir.
That’s often the nature of Reflectors, we don’t push, but we reflect back what’s already been held.

We were both unconscious of what was happening between us.
But the plant knew.

Now, every time I see it,
I am reminded that slow growth is still growth.
That not being discarded,  was enough.
That not every friendship needs to last to have been sacred.
That silence isn’t emptiness.
It’s a kind of becoming.

Maybe this unexpected, overlooked, quietly thriving plant is proof that I’ve been growing all along, even in seasons where nothing seemed certain. It didn’t need praise or special treatment. It just needed not to be discarded. That was enough.

A few days after the message bounced back,
I tried again.

Turns out the message did send, just a tech hiccup.
She saw the plant.
She replied.
Her words were simple:
“It looks good.”
And a gentle reminder followed:
“Wait a bit… it’s summer now. It’ll grow fast. Watch out.”

Maybe that’s all we ever need to hear
from someone who once gave us something living.

So if my dear friend ever stumbles across this post, I want her to know:

Even if we don’t speak,
something grew.

🌱 If you felt something in this post…

Know that your quiet growth is seen.
Your stillness matters.
And sometimes, even the smallest plant knows what the world forgets:
That survival itself is sacred.

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🌕 Until next time —
🕯️ With gentleness,
~ HingsLotus 🌸