Houseplants are all the hype right now. Instagram (or at least my feed) has been taken over by pages touting thousand-dollar plants, beautiful terrariums, and rooms dedicated to creating an indoor tropical paradise.

For me, it isn’t about having the trendiest plants or most expensive setups. It’s the joy of propagating clippings of my favorite funky plant to give to a coworker after hers was sunburned and how excited my parents are to send me pictures of new leaves on my plants back home. It’s the hours of conversation I can have with my grandma about her grandmother’s green thumb. It’s all the little moments of connection that grow from tiny clay pots.

There are four plants that sat in our kitchen while I was growing up. A pothos and a Christmas cactus that have both been there as long as I can remember, a cactus gifted to my sister, and an aloe.

The pothos grows any way it wishes. Whether stretched over the nitrogen-rich fish tank or rooting into the carpet, it will grow and thrive. Even when I butchered it while learning how to propagate, it came back with a resilience that I can’t help but respect. The Christmas cactus belonged to my great-grandmother and refused to bloom until the year she passed away. Now, its bright pink flower comes back each year to say hello.

The cactus has quietly grown alongside my sister and me. It is made from two cactuses grafted together. The sturdy base and the twisting top showcase two personalities that work together to create a beautiful addition to the home. The aloe grows wildly. Barely contained by any pot, it stretches its arms to the kitchen window, over the sink, and singes its tips on the oven. The aloe reaches out to embrace every inch of the heart of the home.

When I moved away from home, I quickly filled my space with every plant that made me smile. Cradling the small nursery pots of begonias, aloes, pileas, and succulents, I cared for these little beings and they repaid me with joy and quiet company. After finding a monstera for $15 - a steal where I am - I brought the giant plant home with me and watched it thrive in the sun. With its leaves like branches, on hard days I could lay beneath it and look up through the fenestrations. The cuts and holes let the sunshine through and provided new perspectives.

On one November night, I retrieved two of my plants that were under the care of someone who did not understand my love for them. They were haggard and damaged, but not dead yet. With more light, a consistent watering routine, and love, they’ve regrown and are full and flourishing again.

I am grateful for the philodendrons, succulents, sansevierias, calatheas, and grasses who have kept me rooted. Without them, I would be missing the colors of their leaves, the smell of potting soil, and the connections they have granted with the people around me.