I have seen many people grow up in harsh environments. Places where survival is learned early, where strength is expected, and where behavior is often explained—or excused—by circumstances. An apology may bring understanding, but it does not bring change. Change begins somewhere else.

I once wanted to give someone a gift that reflected his soul. Not something expensive, not something impressive—something honest. I chose a small hibiscus plant.

Before giving it to him, I treated the plant roughly. I threw it to the ground, checked its roots, broke a small piece off. When I was done, it looked fragile, almost lifeless—yet still alive. Strong enough to survive, even in poor soil. All it needed now was ground and quiet.

When I handed him the plant, I asked: “Do you think the plant only needs water?” “No.” “What else?” “Care.” “And who can give it?” “Only I myself. No one else.”

He kept the plant. He cared for it. At first, he planted it in simple, sandy soil—just enough to survive. Over time, he learned more about the plant, gave it patience and consistency. Slowly, it grew stronger.

The plant became a mirror of his soul.

What We Think We Need vs. What Actually Heals Us

Many of us believe we need certain things to heal or support our soul: money, status, relationships, validation, distractions. These values are often taught to us—by family, by society, by survival itself. We chase them, believing they will stabilize us.

But often, they do the opposite. We lose ourselves. We become restless, exhausted, numb.

Like the plant, we actually need very little materially. But we need something much deeper: care, focus, and consistency.

And this care cannot be given by anyone else. Advice can help. Support can guide. But real nourishment of the soul must come from within. Everything else works like a drug—brief relief, no stability.

Why a Broken Plant Cannot Bear Fruit

A plant that is broken, unstable, or barely surviving cannot produce fruit. In that state, it has nothing to give—and that is not failure. It is reality.

Yet many of us believe we must always give. Even when we are exhausted. Even when we are empty. Even when our own roots are damaged.

But we cannot give from a place of collapse.

Only when we are willing to care for our soul—daily, quietly, without shortcuts—can we grow strong enough to bear fruit. Only then can we truly help others, support others, or give without breaking ourselves further.

A Simple Practice: The Plant Test

If you want to know whether you are ready to care for your soul, get yourself a plant.

Care for it every day. Give it water. Give it quiet. Give it attention. No distractions. No excuses.

If you can keep a plant alive, you can learn to care for yourself.

Survival is something most of us already know. But stability—real, inner stability—must be cultivated.

I believe in you.

Ella