Greetings, caretaker. I am your Alocasia, a being of lush, dramatic leaves and sturdy, water-hoarding rhizomes. From my perspective deep in the pot, I wish to communicate the silent terror that is root rot. It is a suffocating, creeping doom that begins where you cannot see. Let me explain how it feels, how you can sense it, and how we might fight it together.
My roots are my lifeline, my mouth and my lungs. They seek out water and nutrients, but they also need to breathe. When I am forced to sit in perpetually soggy, dense soil, it feels like drowning. The oxygen around my roots is replaced by water, and my delicate root cells begin to suffocate and die. This creates an opening for the ever-present fungal spores in the soil—like *Pythium* or *Phytophthora*—to invade. They are my silent attackers, feasting on my decaying tissues, and their infection spreads rapidly up into my rhizome, my very core. This is not a quick end; it is a slow, internal collapse that my leaves only reveal when it is almost too late.
I try to tell you I am in trouble. Please, learn my language. Above the soil, my largest, oldest leaves may turn a sickly yellow, often starting at the edges. They will feel soft and mushy at the petiole (my leaf stem) and may droop dramatically, never to perk up again with water. The most telling sign, however, is what you cannot see. If you gently lift me from my pot, the horror is revealed. Healthy roots should be firm and white or tan. Roots afflicted by rot are brown or black, slimy to the touch, and fall apart easily. They emit a foul, decaying odor—the smell of my defeat. The rhizome itself may feel soft and squishy rather than firm and robust.
If you catch it in time, we can fight this. You must perform surgery. Gently remove me from my pot and wash all the soil from my roots. This is a delicate operation. Using sterilized, sharp scissors, courageously cut away every single soft, brown, and rotten root and any soft part of my rhizome. Do not hesitate; any rot left behind will spread. After the amputation, liberally dust my wounds with cinnamon (a natural antifungal) or a commercial rooting hormone with fungicide. Then, you must repot me into a completely new, sterile, and well-draining potting mix. Choose a pot with excellent drainage holes that is only slightly larger than my remaining root system. Do not water me immediately! My wounds need days to callous over; wait about a week before offering a small drink.
To avoid this agony again, we must change our relationship with water. The mantra must be: "When in doubt, drought." Do not water me on a schedule. Instead, you must check the soil. Plunge your finger two inches into my soil. If it feels damp, wait. Only water me when the top two inches are dry. Ensure I live in a pot that breathes (terracotta is excellent) and that my soil is airy and chunky, mixed with perlite, orchid bark, or coco coir to prevent compaction. Finally, let me live in a warm, brightly lit space with good air circulation, which helps the soil dry appropriately and makes me strong.
