From my perspective, the most common and distressing issue is when my caretaker provides too much hydration. My roots are not just anchors; they are my lungs, needing oxygen from the air pockets in the soil. When I am consistently over-watered, these air pockets vanish, replaced by water. My roots begin to drown and rot in this waterlogged environment. Once this root rot sets in, they can no longer absorb water or nutrients, no matter how much you give me. The first and most dramatic sign of my silent suffering underground is the sudden, often dramatic, dropping of my beautiful leaves. It is a desperate plea for you to let my roots breathe again.
If you have recently moved me from a nursery to your home, or even just to a new room, please understand the immense shock I am experiencing. I have grown accustomed to very specific levels of light, humidity, and temperature. A sudden change feels like a cataclysm to my system. This is known as environmental shock. The stress of this abrupt transition can cause me to conserve my energy by jettisoning a significant number of leaves. It is not a sign of ingratitude, but one of survival, as I try to reduce my foliage to match what I perceive as a less favorable environment for growth.
While I despise wet feet, I am a living organism and I require a consistent, moderate supply of water to transport nutrients and maintain my cellular structure. When I am left to become completely dry for extended periods, my internal systems begin to shut down. The soil pulls away from the pot's edges, and my roots desiccate. To prevent total system failure, I must make a difficult choice: sacrifice the extremities to save the core. The leaves, being the furthest points, are the first to be abandoned. They will often turn brown, become crispy, and drop as a clear signal of my profound thirst.
My leaves are my pride, my solar panels, and my life source. So, when tiny invaders like spider mites, scale, or mealybugs appear, it is a direct assault on my very being. These pests are thieves, piercing my leaf tissues to suck out the vital sap—the very blood that carries my energy. This draining attack weakens me significantly and damages the cells of the leaves. A heavily infested leaf becomes a liability, a drain on resources rather than a producer, and my survival instinct dictates that I must detach it. You may see webbing, sticky residue, or the tiny bugs themselves if you look closely at my undersides.
I live in a confined space with a finite amount of nutrients in my potting soil. Over many months, I will diligently consume all the available nitrogen, potassium, and other essential minerals. Once these are depleted, I enter a state of starvation. I cannot produce the chlorophyll needed for photosynthesis or the strong cellular structures needed to hold my leaves aloft. Without this fuel, I am forced into a state of conservation. I will begin to drop my older, lower leaves first, reabsorbing their remaining nutrients in a last-ditch effort to keep my main stem and newest growth alive. It is a slow, quiet decline from a lack of sustenance.
