…reflecting on plants, people, and becoming “TT Stacey” by stacey james mcadoo…
I noticed a new leaf on my Rubber Tree, and it’s hard to describe the feeling that overcame me when I saw it. It arrived around the exact same time I became “TT Stacey” to a beautiful seven-pound baby boy… and his Gammy (my Godsister) was naturally the first person I called to show off the new, vibrant bud.
But the feeling went much deeper than just celebrating my green thumb.
In the various plant groups I belong to (special shout out to Black Plant Mamas), caretakers constantly talk about the complexities of plant care. We talk about how dramatic certain species can be, and how hard it is to figure out what a stressed plant needs when conflicting issues present the exact same symptoms. We talk about how damage from overwatering might not show up until weeks later after the damage is already done, or how plants react slowly… and then suddenly all at once. Caring for them requires patience, trial and error, and a willingness to wait without immediate payoff. And sometimes, it requires completely starting over.
Yet, watching something thrive largely because of the effort I put into it brings a quiet, undeniable joy.
Looking around at the 45 plants I’ve accumulated, I realized that as complex as they are, they often feel safer to love than my human relationships. Sure, plant care has its downsides (a dropping leaf or a dying plant brings real sadness) but those feelings are far less heavy than the weight of chaotic work schedules and environments, unmanageable expectations, inconsiderate loved ones, or one-sided friendships. In a noisy and busy world, my plants offer peace and quiet.
With plants, the math is relatively simple: effort generally yields growth, and attention typically yields life. But human beings (including myself) are far more delicate. We, too, put out conflicting signals when we’re stressed. We, too, carry damage from past “overwatering” or neglect that doesn’t show up until much later. But instead of just hurting ourselves, we hurt others too.
Nurturing my plants has taught me that I need to extend that same patient, grace-filled space—not necessarily to the people in my life (because I truly feel that I’ve done that for years), but to myself.
I need to ensure that the containers and spaces I inhabit are actually the right fit, and that my environment offers enough reciprocated love and light for me to thrive. I deserve to be in spaces where someone occasionally notices that I’m thirsty and offers a drink, or helps prune the dead weight so I’m no longer wasting energy on people and things that only drag me down.
As I hold space for this new leaf and celebrate the new life of my God-grand-nephew, I’m reminded that growth can’t be rushed or forced. Whether we are tending to a houseplant, a relationship, or a brand-new soul entering this world, the recipe is the same: create a safe environment, offer steady love, give it time, and trust the process of becoming.
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Stacey McAdoo, the 2019 Arkansas Teacher of the Year, has dedicated over twenty years to advocating for traditionally underrepresented students and educators. Her relationship-based approach to education is featured in the award-winning Arkansas PBS docuseries Closing the Opportunity Gap and her specialized course, Coaching Self-Expression: Go-In Poet.
As the founder of the Writeous Poets (a spoken word and youth advocacy collective) and an expert professional development facilitator, Stacey designs transformative sessions centered on arts integration, equity, and empowerment. She currently serves as a professor at Reach University and the national Managing Director of Learning & Development for Teach Plus. Additionally, she is the host of the A Mile In My Shoes: The Walk & Talk Podcast and the founder of Still Standing: The Practice, a community for resilient women who, to the world’s astonishment and surprise, continue to stand and thrive despite life’s most unimaginable challenges.
Still Stacey 