The Rotten Parts

For the last month, I’ve been trying to save my ivy plant, Kendrick. I had noticed that Kendrick was struggling to survive, and despite my watering & repotting attempts, I ultimately turned to water propagation as a last resort to his troubles. If you don’t know what it means to propagate a plant, don’t worry, I didn’t either, until my AI Klaude told me so. This process involves taking the remaining healthy stems and placing them in water, hoping that they grow new roots. The key is choosing the strongest stems, the ones that are still green and have the best chance of revival. Per Klaude’s advice, it's essential to remove all the rotten stems because plants will direct their energy to anything attached to them- especially the weaker parts. Cutting out the damaged areas meant Kendrick could direct his energy to the stems that had the greatest potential to thrive. So we said goodbye to all dead blackened ends, dried shriveled leaves, and moldy roots, hoping for Kendrick’s bounce back. 

As a new AI-certified plant nurse, I consciously tended to Kendrick’s plant wounds and undeniably started making connections to my own. Though my wounds are a bit different than Kendricks, here I was considering how similar we were. I had my own rotten parts- habits that weren’t helping me grow, and feeling out of alignment with my values. For a while, I’ve felt stagnant and stuck, unsure about my next steps and cast in self-doubt. Watching Kendrick wither away felt like looking in the mirror and left me wondering- what parts of myself needed to be cut away so I could come back to life?

One of my long-term habits started when I was 13. Like most teenagers, I set out to explore the world on my own terms, open to experiences and eager to let life shape me. One day, my “so-called” friends and I made our way to explore these graffiti-filled tunnels next to a local park. One of my friends had pulled out some marijuana and asked us all if we wanted to smoke. I had known this substance; it was a mystery my parents tried to keep secret, but with little success. It had been around me my whole life, having been grown, sold, and smoked in my childhood home. So when presented with this opportunity, it almost felt like a birthright. And I eagerly agreed to take a “hit”, unknowing that from that point forward, I would become a seasoned smoker.

Weed easily became my comfort, a quick escape that made everything feel better, even if only for a moment. It was there through the good times and the bad. It was like a warm blanket on a cold night. Keeping me soothed in my most vulnerable moments and acting as a layer of protection when life became too scary. What I would ultimately discover is there’s a fine line between comfort and dependence. And this dependence took my childhood curiosities and turned them into an adult addiction. 

Some say addiction is hereditary, like woven into one’s DNA. If your parents are addicts, then you’ll be an addict because your reality becomes whatever they normalize. My father has been a substance user since before I was born, and I have seen him detox from heroin, meth, percocets, alcohol, and much more. But this generational addiction to substances didn’t start with him; it wore many faces before he smoked his first joint, and before I smoked my own. I know some of you may be shaking your head, like qué dramática, you can’t be addicted to smoking weed, an addict is someone who does hard drugs. Trust me, I believed this too, and I don’t necessarily think that I’m some hardcore addict. But over time, my dependence became overwhelming. My sense of self-control faded, and letting go of the habit felt nearly impossible. I made every excuse to keep weed around. I can’t sleep, smoke. I can’t eat, smoke, I want to have fun, smoke. I had a bad day, smoke. I began to feel like I had adopted my father’s addictive personality, and I suddenly was the one who needed a detox.

I’ve wanted to kick this habit for a long time, but it became impossible to ignore as I entered my late twenties. Finding toxic patterns in my life, I had begun to question a lot about the path I was paving for myself. A therapist told me a while ago that I can’t justify my adult behavior by blaming my parents for what they didn’t provide me as a child. I had to take accountability for my adult actions. I could be the paternal figure in my life who could speak to my inner child and give them space to heal. 

This idea resurfaced while on a trip to Costa Rica. While snorkeling, I was privy to images of colorful coral reefs and fish. An untainted habitat where smoking didn’t exist and everything flowed in its most natural terms. Immersed in that underwater beauty, I felt a sense of rebirth. I returned home with a renewed determination to change, ready to finally let go of a habit I had carried since childhood.

But clarity is not the same as ease, and commitment doesn’t automatically translate to transformation. Letting go was only the first step, and learning how to live differently came next.

Persistence prevailed, and it's been over two months now since I stopped smoking weed. It’s been a roller coaster of a journey. In the beginning, I was underwhelmed by the change. I had expected this big “WOW” moment, and the world to start serving me on a silver platter of opportunity and success. Instead, my unrealistic expectations crashed into reality. The first few weeks felt like boredom, restlessness, and a constant, uncomfortable awareness of myself. The smokescreen had been lifted, and I was seeing my life for the first time with clear thoughts and a room full of problems with no substance-induced mental escape. 

A month into this change, I spoke to my therapist about it. I told her how I was so confused to find that nothing felt different, and that I had to confront these challenges with no support. Exhausted, I confessed I didn’t think cutting the habit was worth it and felt I was getting better. She asked me what this change was supposed to look like, and I told her I expected a domino effect of life-changing moments: a new job, to feel immaculate, and to develop healthier relationships. She reminded me that a life-changing moment wasn’t going to happen by kicking one habit, but that if I was open to hearing it, she felt I was changing a lot. She acknowledged my success in remedying a friendship without substance use, that I had managed to create a website without substance use, and that I was being considered for new job positions, all with my California sober mind. She said, “Sure, it might not feel groundbreaking, but you’re creating solid foundations, and that counts for something. Give it some time, because change takes time.”

Since then, I’ve tried to remain patient and lower my expectations. While some days are more manageable than others, I find peace in knowing that I am maintaining my discipline and being consistent with my commitment to change. 

The caveat of this all is that cutting off the rotten parts doesn’t always guarantee regrowth. It is with a heavy heart that I announce that Kendrick did not make it. The damage to his stems was deeper than what could be revived, and I have since accepted that I tried and was unsuccessful in saving him. In this, I learn that there may be circumstances that are beyond tending to. In those situations, the best we can do is put it to rest, step away, and prepare to plant an entirely new plant. I’ll take what I’ve learned about patience, pruning, and letting go. Because sometimes growth isn’t about saving what’s dying - it’s about preparing the soil for something new.

As I continue to navigate the rotten parts of my life and find parallels between myself and Kendrick, I, too, find more peace in laying the old me to rest. In every habit I tackle, I confront the notion that there are parts of me that won’t come back, no matter how much I try to save them. And that’s okay. I don’t think Kendrick was meant to survive. His struggle was my message. His healing wasn’t about roots or water or sunlight, but about revealing the parts of me that needed tending. This was never about saving an ivy. It was about learning how to nurture myself back to life.