Lessons From A Christmas Cactus

There’s a Christmas cactus on my windowsill that has been with me for about ten years now. It didn’t start with me—it started with my children’s great grandpa. What I have is a small rooting from his original plant, handed down quietly one Christmas. It was planted in a little tea cup with some soil in it. I don’t think anyone knew then how much that little piece of green would come to mean.

I have loved this plant fiercely.

It has weathered storms and broken pots. It has survived my children lovingly picking its flowers and presenting them to me as gifts, proud and gentle and unaware of the cost. There were seasons when I gave it too much water, and others when I forgot and gave it too little. There were times when it sat in direct sun longer than it should have, and times when it stayed in the shade far too long. One year, the dog removed every single bloom, puzzled by them, offended perhaps by their difference, and left them scattered on the ground.

Even still—every year—it comes back.

This cactus blooms in two colors, as if it can’t decide on just one way to show up.

It operates on its own internal calendar, entirely unimpressed by my schedules, my plans, or my chaos. No matter what happens through most of the year, it remembers when it’s time to bloom.

It’s a quiet kind of faithfulness.

Sometimes I pause long enough to really see that cactus. It started so small—a fragile rooting passed from one generation to the next. Over time, without spectacle or urgency, it learned how to stay.

Life feels like that sometimes, too.

There are seasons when I feel the weight of former relationships, old family tensions, and a life that feels smaller than I once imagined—quieter, more alone than I expected. There are moments when well-meaning people take my spark of joy and hold it right in front of my face, thinking closeness will somehow improve the view.

There are other moments—like the year the dog stripped the blooms—when growth itself seems to confuse people. When something healthy and alive and different is treated as abnormal, perplexing, and quietly removed.

This year, I chose to protect my Christmas cactus.

I placed it just outside my office window, where I can see it throughout the day. I glance up from my work and there it is—gloriously thriving after so many seasons of survival.

Not flashy. Not demanding. Just steady, blooming right on time.

Watching it, I’m reminded that resilience doesn’t always look loud or dramatic.

Sometimes it looks like staying rooted. Sometimes it looks like blooming anyway.

And sometimes it looks like trusting that seasons do, in fact, change—even when everything else feels uncertain.

This plant has taught me something important:

You can love something and still get it wrong sometimes. You can survive neglect and over-attention. You can be mishandled, misunderstood, and wounded and still bloom on your own schedule.

Maybe that’s the quiet relief in all of it. Growth isn’t as fragile as we fear.

Care can be imperfect and still meaningful.

What is meant to bloom will often wait for its own moment—steady, patient, and unhurried.

Sometimes, it’s enough to notice that. To sit with it. To breathe.