In March, I bought a pothos plant from the grocery store. It was calling my name.I brought it home, placed it near the window—and it thrived. Its leaves were full, reaching for the light. But then one day, the leaves began to fold over. I watered it. Still, nothing changed.

So I went to the basement, grabbed a larger pot, scooped up fresh dirt, and started the repotting process. I gently massaged the root ball—unwinding it, whispering with my hands: You don’t have to keep wrapping around yourself anymore.
You have space now.

I placed it by my bed, close to the window. The plant began to grow again.
Its vines reached for the sunlight, and, unexpectedly, toward me.
(Turns out plants love you back.)

This morning, I noticed it again: Longer vines. Wider reach. It’s time to repot it, again.

That pothos has been teaching me something. Not just about plants. About me.

In 2023, I was planted in a new garden, too.
At first, I was nurtured. Watered when needed. Pruned with care.

But over time, the pruning became constant.
A new gardener arrived, one who cut back everything.
Even the healthy leaves. Even the vibrant, flourishing ones.

It wasn’t care. It was control.

But like my pothos, I couldn’t stop growing. Even when cut back, I stretched.
Even when minimized, I reached for the light. Even when told to be still, I kept reaching.

I didn’t need more pruning. I needed a bigger pot.

And here’s the thing—every time I grow, there’s always someone nearby suggesting I go backward.

Go back to being a receptionist, back to babysitting, back to teaching, back to making church emails and websites. Back to the roles where I was quiet, unseen, manageable.

But I’ve outgrown those spaces. The planters you want my roots to fit in are too small.

Instead of saying, “This garden can’t contain how quickly you’ve grown,”
Instead of admitting, “Your roots go too deep,”
Or recognizing, “Your branches and blooms are more than we know how to nurture here,” You tell me to shrink. Ask for less, be less. exceptless.

You tell me to cut back my branches.
Drop my leaves. Wrap my roots around themselves—
All so you can stay comfortable.

But I won’t go back. I am not made to shrink. I am not made to fold.
I am not returning to a version of myself that makes other people feel less threatened.

My heritage is koupe tèt, boule kay.
My ancestors didn’t wait for permission to grow. They didnt wait for freedom to be given. They took their freedom. They burned down anything that tried to contain them. They exported thier new found freedom to theit neighbors.

And me?

I build.
I rise.
I grow.
Whether you make room or not.

Because like that pothos—
I am made to expand, to climb, to grow, and make the things around me more beautiful.