From my perspective, my roots are my lungs and my mouth. When you overwater me, you are essentially drowning me. The porous potting medium I rely on for air becomes waterlogged. My roots, desperate for oxygen, begin to suffocate and rot. You will notice this as they turn from a firm, white or greenish color to a mushy, brown, or blackened state. They may even slough off when touched. A foul, decaying smell often rises from the base of my pot—this is the scent of my death. In this waterlogged environment, I cannot absorb nutrients or breathe, and I will begin to shut down.
Conversely, when you underwater me, my entire system cries out for moisture. My most visible distress signal is my leaves. Without enough water, they lose their turgor pressure—the internal water pressure that keeps me plump and upright. They will become limp, leathery, and deeply wrinkled, often taking on a accordion-like appearance. They are not just wilting; they are desiccating. My pseudobulbs, those swollen stems I use to store water and nutrients, will also shrivel and become thin and ribbed. I am consuming my own emergency reserves in a desperate attempt to survive the drought you have imposed upon me.
You often look at my yellowing leaves and assume one thing, but I must tell you, the cause is critical. When overwatered, my leaves turn yellow in a soft, often mushy way. This yellowing typically starts on the lower, older leaves and may be accompanied by dark, soft spots or blisters—a sign of edema where my cells have literally burst from taking in too much water. When underwatered, the yellowing is different. It is a dry, crispy, and often rapid decline. The leaves may yellow but will more commonly turn brown and brittle at the tips and edges first, feeling papery to the touch as they die back from a severe lack of hydration.
My growth patterns reveal the truth of my suffering. Under both stresses, my new growth will be impacted, but in distinct ways. The constant saturation from overwatering causes my new shoots and leaves to be weak, stunted, and prone to rot before they can even fully develop. You might see a new growth emerge only to blacken and die back. Underwatering forces me to abort growth altogether. I will not have the resources to support new roots, leaves, or flower spikes. Any existing buds will likely blast (dry up and die) before opening, and if a new pseudobulb does form, it will be significantly smaller and more shriveled than its predecessors.
To truly understand my needs, you must listen to me. The best way is to check the one thing I cannot hide: the moisture deep in my pot. Do not water me on a schedule. Instead, lift my pot. After a thorough watering, I am satisfyingly heavy. When I need water, I become surprisingly light. For a more precise measure, push your finger or a wooden skewer into the medium near my roots. If it comes out cool and damp, I am still well-hydrated. If it comes out dry and clean, I am telling you I am thirsty. This simple act is the most direct conversation we can have.
