Step away from the plastic fern, darling—real, breathing greenery is easier than you think.
Why My Plants Used to File for Restraining Orders
True confession: I once crisped a peace lily so badly it looked like biltong. I blamed “black thumb genetics” until I learned that some plants actually like benign neglec, and many are sold right here in Mzansi through Takealot, Builders, and every Saturday-morning market between Durbanville and Durban. Research backs it up: species such as snake plant and pothos not only survive dim flats but actively scrub indoor air of volatile nasties.
Ready to stop the botanical bloodshed? Meet my magnificent seven.
What it wants: One cup of water a month, maybe a compliment every quarter. Drama factor: 1/10. You could forget it behind the couch for a season; it would merely smirk and photosynthesise. NASA’s famous clean-air study put snake plants near the top for formaldehyde removal. Buy it: R 170 for a 17 cm pot at Cape Garden Centre (ships nationwide).
2 | ZZ Plant (Zamioculcas zamiifolia)—The Zen Master
What it wants: Low light, sporadic watering, zero gossip. Why you’ll love it: Glossy leaves that look polished even when Eskom doesn’t power the polish cloth. Garden writers rank it among the hardiest “set-and-forget” options. Buy it: R 200 via Happy Life Plants; arrives swaddled like a newborn.
3 | Golden Pothos (Epipremnum aureum)—The Over-Achiever
What it wants: Anything from bright-ish corner to bookshelf gloom. Party trick: Trails of variegated leaves that forgive missed waterings the way Labradors forgive bad tennis-ball throws. Extension experts call pothos “excellent for beginners.” Buy it: 15 cm hanging basket, R 140 on Plantify, just unbox, hang, and brag.
What it wants: Occasional sunbeam, weekly sip. Why it’s cool: Shoots out baby “spiderettes” you can pot up and gift (or keep, no judgment). Featured in 2025 “fast-growing houseplants” round-ups for good reason. Buy it: R 150 from Botanical Heaven, comes with two free offspring already dangling.
5 | Peace Lily (Spathiphyllum spp.)—The Drama Queen (But in a Good Way)
What it wants: Dappled light, evenly moist soil. Life hack: Leaves droop when thirsty, then bounce back after watering, built-in reminder for the forgetful. South-African supermarket Woollies sells a 14 cm specimen for under R 140.
6 | Aloe Vera—The Medic
What it wants: Bright light, sandy soil, the odd sunburned human to rescue. Bonus: Gel inside treats minor burns and mosquito bites, first-aid kit on a stem. Gardening mags list aloe among 2025’s “best low-light succulents.” Buy it:Builders Warehouse, R 79 per chunky starter.
What it wants: Indirect light, fortnightly water, occasional leaf-wipe (it’s vain like that). Reward: Insta-worthy glossy foliage that says “I’ve got my life together” even if you’re Googling “load-shedding dinner ideas.” Decofurn sells a 15 cm potted stunner for R 175.00 from Plantify.
Quick-Start Care Plan (No Latin Required)
Light: If you can read without squinting, the plant’s fine.
Water: Finger test, soil dry 3 cm down? Water. Still damp? Step away.
Food: A slow-release pellet every spring; skip if you forget, nobody dies.
Pots: Drainage holes are non-negotiable; saucers catch the guilt.
Do that, and you’ll be the smug friend doling out baby spider plants by Christmas.
The long, deflated breath you let out when you finally sit down: spine slack, eyelids twitching, coffee gone cold beside you. The breath that says I’ve had enough, even when your to-do list screams more. And then, like clockwork, comes the guilt.
Shouldn’t you be doing something?
Something productive. Something useful. Something Instagrammable. Something heroic. Something that makes you look less… weak?
Rest, in this world, is framed as failure unless it’s earned. And even then, only just.
The Hustle is a Cult, and We’re All in It
We live in a culture where burnout is a badge of honour. Where busy-ness is virtue, exhaustion is currency, and rest is treated like dessert, a sugary reward after you’ve swallowed the meat and bones of your suffering.
But here’s the uncomfortable truth: rest is not a reward. It’s a right.
And yet most of us, especially those who care for others, live with chronic conditions, juggle invisible workloads, or simply exist in survival mode, don’t believe we’ve earned it. We need to be told. Given permission. Prescribed it like paracetamol.
I still catch myself apologising for needing rest. I soften the language. I say, “I’m just going to lie down for a minute,” instead of “I’m shutting the world out because I’m completely depleted.” I say “I’m tired” instead of “I’m in pain.” I say nothing at all and power through, because who wants to be the fragile one?
It’s a scam. And it’s killing us slowly.
The History We Inherited (And Didn’t Ask For)
We didn’t create this culture of grind. We inherited it: a system shaped by generations of economic pressure, industrial ideals, and a culture that confuses rest with laziness.
Historically, rest wasn’t just discouraged, it was denied. To the enslaved. The poor. The working class. Productivity was a measure of compliance. Rest was resistance.
Today, even self-care has been co-opted. It’s no longer about replenishing the soul, it’s about selling face masks and bath bombs to the already burnt out. Even our downtime is expected to be photogenic.
And if you live with a chronic illness? Rest becomes your entire life, and somehow still, people expect you to justify it. To prove you’re not just lazy, flaky, or attention-seeking.
Rest is Resistance
Audre Lorde said it best: “Caring for myself is not self-indulgence; it is self-preservation.”
Rest is not about quitting. It’s about surviving a system that rewards overextension and punishes stillness. It’s about reclaiming softness in a world that demands sharp edges. It’s about trusting your body over your inbox.
Rest is how we remember we’re human.
What Rest Actually Looks Like (Spoiler: Not Always Pretty)
Let’s get something straight: rest isn’t always wrapped in silk pajamas with lo-fi beats in the background. Sometimes rest is ugly. Messy. Loud. Sometimes it’s:
Crying in the bath until your sinuses are clear.
Saying “no” without offering an excuse.
Sleeping in clothes that aren’t pajamas because that’s all you could manage.
Letting the dishes wait.
Cancelling plans, even with people you love.
Turning off your phone.
Doing nothing, not meditating, not manifesting, not improving yourself. Just… nothing.
Real rest is not aesthetic. It’s sacred.
You Don’t Need Permission, But Here It Is Anyway
If you need someone to say it, let me be the voice:
You are allowed to rest. Not because you worked hard enough. Not because you’re falling apart. Not because you ticked every box. But because you are a living being. And living beings need rest.
No one questions a dog for napping in the sun. No one asks a tree to bloom year-round. But somehow, you, with your spiralling inbox and shrinking patience and bones that ache when it rains, are expected to keep going like a machine.
You are not a machine. You are not a machine. You are not a machine.
Let the World Wait
The revolution isn’t in the doing. It’s in the being. It’s in saying, “Not today, thanks.” It’s in horizontal activism; in naps, in stillness, in choosing slowness when the world demands speed.
Rest isn’t the opposite of action. It’s what allows us to continue.
So lie down. Log off. Let the world wait.
It can handle itself for a while.
And if it can’t? That’s not your fault either.
Tell me…
Do you struggle with guilt when you rest?
What’s one way you’re reclaiming rest in your own life?
Should we start a nap revolution?
Let’s talk in the comments, but only after your nap.
On chilly mornings, warm beds, and the slow joy of being with someone you’ve missed.
There’s a particular kind of comfort that comes with waking up in the middle of the night and feeling your partner asleep next to you. When it’s cold out, and they’re warm, and for just a moment everything feels safe and still. Bugsy snuggled in his bed, the hush of autumn just beyond the window, and his hand finding mine under the covers. It’s not dramatic, but it is everything.
Last night we went to visit friends for a drink. We sat around, the four of us, listening to Joe Cocker’s Woodstock performance of With a Little Help From My Friends, drinking wine, and laughing until our bellies ached. It was the kind of night that fills your cup in ways you didn’t know it was empty.
When we got home, Bugsy was over the moon to see us. We stayed up until after 2 am, just talking and laughing, savouring the feeling of being together again. I was supposed to be back here a week ago, but broken-down cars and a relentless list of responsibilities kept pushing the date out. Life happened, as it does. But man, was it good to come back.
We call this my home too now, because home is where the heart is. And he has my heart.
This weekend, we’re letting ourselves unwind. We have plans to visit a local bazaar; right now, we’re cooking meals, watching movies, and diving into a feast of sports, rugby, Roland Garros tennis, and Formula 1. It’s the kind of cosy weekend routine that makes space for recovery. Bugsy is fast asleep next to the French doors, curled up in his bed, the green garden just beyond.
Outside, it’s chilly, grey, and beautifully quiet. Inside, it’s all warmth and rest. It feels like a much-needed pause, a gentle return to ourselves. A little slice of emotional burnout recovery in real time.
I learned the hard way that working 18-hour days, six days a week, will break you in more ways than just physically. Burnout isn’t a badge of honour. Downtime isn’t optional. It’s vital for your well-being and your soul.
So if you’re reading this and running on empty, I hope you give yourself the gift of slowing down. Let yourself rest. Let yourself be held. Let yourself remember what it feels like to come home, to your body, to your breath, and to the people who love you. This season, let reconnection be your ritual.
I’ve always believed that life is just far too difficult to do alone. Not just the big, obvious stuff—like raising a child or recovering from loss—but the quiet, daily aches that wear us down. Healing, surviving, rebuilding… it takes a village. And more and more, that village is showing up in the form of community-based trauma therapy.
Why Community Matters in Healing
In South Africa, where many still carry the weight of generational trauma, structural violence, and social inequality, traditional one-on-one therapy isn’t always accessible—or culturally aligned. But healing doesn’t only happen on a therapist’s couch. It happens when stories are witnessed. When pain is spoken and met with compassion. When we remember we’re not alone.
Community-based trauma therapy recognizes that. It creates spaces—sometimes in community halls, sometimes on surfboards—where people can process trauma together. These models don’t just offer therapy. They offer belonging.
“Healing doesn’t only happen on a therapist’s couch. It happens when stories are witnessed.”
The Tree of Life: Stories as Medicine
One powerful example is Phola, a psychosocial support organization in Orange Farm. Their approach is rooted in narrative therapy, using tools like the “Tree of Life” to help individuals reframe their stories—not as broken, but as brave. The method allows people to speak about their experiences metaphorically, making it safer to explore painful memories, especially in group settings. This isn’t just storytelling—it’s survival alchemy.
“This isn’t just storytelling—it’s survival alchemy.”
Surf, Salt, and Solidarity
Another beautiful model is Waves for Change, which brings surf therapy to kids in under-resourced coastal communities. The ocean becomes a therapist of sorts—a place of play, trust-building, and emotional regulation. Trained surf mentors guide kids through structured sessions that blend movement with mental health support, reducing symptoms of trauma and anxiety over time.
Traditional Wisdom Meets Modern Healing
In many communities, healing is not separate from culture—it’s deeply spiritual. Practices like ukuthwasa, an initiation process into traditional healing, emphasize connection to ancestors, purpose, and the unseen. While not every path involves becoming a sangoma, the broader lesson is this: healing is not just psychological. It’s communal. It’s sacred.
The Work of Repair
South African psychologist Dr. Pumla Gobodo-Madikizela speaks of a “reparative quest”—a collective effort to confront historical trauma and create new pathways forward. Her work reminds us that healing is not about forgetting what happened, but about holding it with care, together.
“Healing is not about forgetting what happened, but about holding it with care, together.”
What We Can Learn
These community-based approaches aren’t just inspiring, they’re instructive. They remind us that we are wired for connection, and that recovery doesn’t have to be a solitary act. Whether it’s sharing a story, holding space for someone else’s pain, or simply showing up, we all have the capacity to be part of each other’s healing.
