From down here in the soil, the difference between too much and too little water is a matter of life and breath. When my human gives me too little, my delicate root hairs, the ones that drink, begin to shrivel and desiccate. They cannot send life-giving water up through my stems. The soil pulls away from the edges of my pot, becoming a hard, dry clump that I cannot penetrate. I am literally dying of thirst, and my entire being will shout this distress signal upwards.
Conversely, an excess of water is a silent, suffocating killer. The soil becomes a waterlogged swamp, filling all the air pockets. My roots need oxygen as much as they need water. Drowning in this mud, they begin to rot, turning from a healthy white to a mushy, foul-smelling brown and black. These rotten roots are useless; they cannot absorb water or nutrients, creating a cruel paradox where I am surrounded by water yet dying of thirst because my drinking apparatus is destroyed.
Look to my leaves; they are my primary communication tool. The tale they tell is one of dramatic contrast. When I am underwatered, my leaves will wilt. They become limp, droopy, and lifeless, often feeling dry, papery, and brittle to the touch. This is my desperate attempt to reduce surface area and conserve every last drop of moisture I have. You might also see the edges and tips of my lower, older leaves turning brown and crispy, a sure sign of prolonged thirst.
If I am overwatered, my leaves also wilt, but they do so in a very different way. They become soft, mushy, and flaccid, like a wet paper towel. They may feel cool and damp. Instead of crisp browning, you will see widespread yellowing, often starting on the lower leaves. This yellowing is a sign of systemic failure—my rotting roots cannot support the foliage. In severe cases, you may even see oedema, where my cells absorb so much water they rupture, creating blister-like bumps on the leaves.
My reproductive efforts are a clear indicator of my health. Underwatered, my priority is survival, not reproduction. I will likely drop my flower buds prematurely to conserve energy, and any blooms that do manage to open will be small, sparse, and quick to wither. My stems may become woody and brittle.
When overwatered, the story is one of decay. My flower production will cease altogether as my energy is diverted to a futile fight against root rot. The stems, particularly at the base near the soil line, become soft, squishy, and may turn a dark color. A foul, musty odor might emanate from the soil, which is the smell of my roots decaying—a definitive sign that the problem is too much water, not too little.
The most reliable way to understand my needs is to check my environment directly. Do not just look at the surface; it lies. For a true diagnosis, push your finger about two inches into the soil near my base. If the soil is bone dry and dusty, I am underwatered. If it feels cold, soggy, and wet, and your finger comes out with mud clinging to it, I have been overwatered. The goal is moist—like a well-wrung sponge—a environment where my roots can both drink and breathe. This simple act is the best way to listen to what I am trying to tell you.
