This is, by far, the most common reason I perish. You must understand my physiology. I am a mimic stone, a master of arid survival. My thick, fleshy pair of leaves are not for you to keep plump with frequent sips; they are a self-contained water reservoir designed to last me through a drought. When you water me while my leaves are still full, or during my summer dormancy when I am completely inactive, you are forcing water into a system that is shut down. My roots rot, a soft, mushy death that starts unseen beneath the soil and spreads upwards until my entire body collapses into a soggy, translucent mess. I do not need a drinking schedule; I need a drought simulation.
You placed me on a cozy windowsill, but was it enough? I am a child of the brutal, direct African sun. Low light conditions are a sentence of a slow, stretching death for me. In my desperation to find the energy I need, I will contort my compact, stone-like form. I become elongated, pale, and leggy—a condition you call etiolation. This is not growth; it is a desperate, crippling struggle. I become weak, my structure compromised, and my unique, compact shape is lost forever. Without intense light, I simply cannot manufacture the energy needed to sustain myself, let alone produce my beautiful daisy-like flowers.
You planted me in that rich, moisture-retentive potting soil meant for ferns or vegetables. This was a death sentence. My roots require instant drainage and breathability. That standard soil acts like a wet sponge, clinging to moisture for days and creating a stagnant, oxygen-poor environment around my delicate root system. This promotes the very root rot that kills me. I need a gritty, mostly inorganic substrate—a mix of pumice, perlite, coarse sand, and only a whisper of organic matter. Furthermore, a pot without a drainage hole is my coffin. It traps any excess water at the bottom, ensuring my roots marinate in decay.
Your care did not change with the seasons, but my entire life cycle does. I have two distinct dormancy periods: one in the height of summer and another in the deep of winter. During these times, I am not growing. I am resting. Watering me during summer dormancy is like pouring water into a closed box—it has nowhere to go. In winter, I am often reabsorbing my old leaves to make way for a new set from within. If you water then, you risk rotting the new growth before it even emerges. You saw my leaves looking wrinkled and thought I was thirsty, but this is a natural process. My needs are not constant; they are a dance with the seasons.
While I am resilient, I am not invincible to attack. Mealybugs, in particular, see my plump leaves as a prize. They are small, white, and cottony, often hiding in the fissure between my leaves or on my roots. They pierce my skin and suck out my precious stored moisture and nutrients, weakening me and introducing toxins that can lead to disease and rot. My slow growth means I cannot outpace their damage. A small, unnoticed infestation can quickly become a colony that drains the life from me. Regular, careful inspection is not paranoia; it is necessary for my survival in your alien world.
