How COVID-19 Layoffs Broke My Confidence, and How Starting a Greenhouse Brought It Back
At the very start of the COVID-19 pandemic, worries were whispers. Fast-forward a couple weeks: businesses closed, unemployment numbers skyrocketed, infection rates and death counts rose, and more people were stuck home than ever before.
At the time, I was working at a software company in Atlanta that specialized in influencer marketing. The saying is: When any financial tragedy strikes, marketing is the first to go. In the case of COVID-19, this held true. Within the first week of businesses shutting their doors, I (along with many other talented folks) lost my job and stable source of income. The next couple weeks were uncertain—in terms of professional work as well as with personal time management. With so many extra hours on hand, I felt the need to monetize my hobbies and fill my now empty schedule with things that either sparked joy or created a new habit. I tried new projects like painting, photography, nature walks, hiking, cooking (and more!) but quickly lost interest; I tried calling more people but quickly experienced technical difficulties due to multiple people using my historic building’s bandwidth. Amid social distancing and social isolation, my depressive episodes and anxiety attacks had reached a new high—and I was growing very exhausted. As a last-ditch effort to console myself, I turned toward plants.
I had always been a fan of growing. Although medical professionals differ on the connection between mental health and taking care of plants, I fully acknowledged their ability to curb my depression and anxious tendencies. So after weeks of staring at walls and exploring dead-end hobbies, I finally tried leaning into plants, vegetables, and sustainable food while living in my two-bedroom, second-floor apartment. Turns out that was the best thing I could have done.
Plants don’t care that you’re in a global pandemic. Plants require the same things, no matter the circumstance: air, water, soil, and some good ole loving. Due to my abundance of time, I gave plenty of that. I already had about 20 plants pre-COVID, but that quickly grew—metaphorically and physically. I propagated pothos and mysterious succulents I had salvaged from bargain bins. Since I had no source of income, the plants I propagated turned into thoughtful gifts that I could give friends and family for their birthdays, anniversaries, and graduations. I saved the tops of green onions, lettuce, and other vegetables and rooted them in water until they were able to grow in soil. With grocery stores and food-delivery options as a strain on my savings account, growing my own vegetables was a way to stabilize my daily schedule around something that would eventually nourish me in return. Taking care of something is an easy way to also take care of yourself, and watching my discarded vegetables take root directly translated into the compassion and self-care I felt for myself. Also because of this, I safely gifted cuttings to friends who didn’t have roommates or pets—and needed something to take care of.
Plants are alive—they wilt without nutrients and they dance around your room according to how the sunlight falls. By turning every available surface (windowsills, kitchen counters, balconies, and bathroom shelves) into a propagation station, I not only (slightly) satiated my need for social interaction, but curbed my longing for something to take care of. Plants hold you accountable—if you aren’t there to take care of them, they will take the fall. I learned responsibility. I learned the importance of location, timeliness, and routine. But more than anything, I learned that even through the hardest of times, putting love into something other than yourself is one of the most powerful actions you can take. Love grows through everything you touch—much like a plant itself.
Originally Appeared on Architectural Digest
