A few days ago, I noticed that four of the bottom leaves on my Monstera had turned yellow. I knew what it meant. Every plant owner does. The leaves were done. I kept looking at them anyway. Partly because I didn’t want to cut them off. Partly because I was curious. I had never really paid attention to what happens at the end of a leaf’s life.
The advice online was simple enough: trim them away and let the plant redirect its energy elsewhere. I planned to. Then something unexpected happened. The leaves removed themselves.
When I touched them, they came away effortlessly. No scissors. No cutting. No resistance. The plant had already finished the work. I was late to the decision. The plant had made it without me.
I spent the rest of the day thinking about how often we try to force endings. We announce them, dramatize them, schedule them, threaten them, delay them, negotiate with them. Sometimes we spend more energy managing an ending than the thing itself. But nature seems to have a different approach.
A leaf does not hold a meeting. A tree does not publish a statement. A season does not ask permission. When something has completed its purpose, it begins to let go… quietly, gradually, without applause, without explanation.
The leaf does not fail because it falls.
It falls because it has already succeeded.
Its work is done. I think many of us struggle because we mistake completion for loss. A relationship changes and we call it tragedy. An identity dissolves and we call it confusion. A chapter ends and we call it failure. But what if some endings are simply evidence that something fulfilled its purpose?
Not everything that leaves was stolen. Not everything that dies was cut down. Some things are released.
This week I found myself thinking about death more than usual. Not in a dramatic way. Just in the way that happens when you notice people getting older. When you notice your dog isn’t a puppy anymore. When family conversations wander toward illness, funerals, and the inevitable realities waiting for all of us.
For a moment, I felt the familiar temptation to worry about tomorrow. Then I realized something. Death and tomorrow have a lot in common. Neither one exists in the present. Both belong to a future version of reality that has not arrived yet.
I don’t know what tomorrow holds. I certainly don’t know what comes after this life. But I know where I am right now. I know there is coffee in my cup. I know my dog is asleep nearby. I know my plant is growing new leaves. I know the afternoon sun is still moving across the room. And I know that if I spend today mourning every future ending, I will eventually arrive at those endings having missed the life that came before them.
Maybe that’s the real lesson. Not that endings aren’t sad. Not that loss isn’t real. But that life asks us to participate while it is here. To walk the dog, call the friend, plant the seed, write the page, love the people.. to enjoy the leaf while it is green. And when it finally turns yellow, to trust that letting go is not always destruction. Sometimes it is simply the final stage of growth. The leaf knew that before I did.