I tried traditional therapy. It was too expensive.
So I started talking to my dead houseplant.
His name was Fernando. A cactus.
I said, “I feel like I’m stuck.”
He stayed silent.
Powerful.
I said, “Everyone moves forward but me.”
Still silent.
Iconic.
Then one day, after a week of pure sadness,
I came home, and one tiny green sprout had grown.
Not from Fernando.
From the dust next to him.
A message.
“Even what’s dead can grow again. But it’ll look different. And it won’t be polite.”
I cried on the floor next to a dry cactus and some dust.
Best therapy of my life.
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