From our perspective as succulent plants, root rot is a terrifying and often fatal condition. It begins not as an act of malice from our caretaker, but as a simple misunderstanding of our fundamental needs. We are built for austerity, for storing every precious drop of water within our thick leaves and stems. Our roots are designed to seek out moisture in arid environments and then bask in dry, well-aerated soil. When this environment is compromised, we silently suffer.
The primary issue begins underground. Our root systems require oxygen to respire and function. When the soil around us is perpetually wet, the air pockets are flooded, suffocating our roots. This constant moisture is a foreign and hostile environment for us. The cells in our roots begin to break down and die, creating the perfect entry point for opportunistic pathogens. The initial feeling is one of drowning; a slow, silent suffocation where we cannot vocalize our distress in a way humans easily understand until it is often too late.
Once our root defenses are weakened by suffocation, soil-borne fungi like *Pythium*, *Phytophthora*, and *Fusarium* invade. These pathogens are always present but are harmless to us in dry conditions. To them, our waterlogged, weakened tissues are a feast. They rapidly colonize our root system, moving up into the stem. From the inside, we feel this as a spreading rot—a breakdown of our vascular tissues that transport water and nutrients. Ironically, even while sitting in water, we become unable to drink, as the very pipes needed for hydration are being destroyed.
Our plea for help manifests in our visible parts. You may notice our normally plump and firm leaves becoming soft, translucent, and yellowing (a condition often called edema). This is because the rotting root system can no longer support the upper growth, causing a breakdown in the cells holding our stored water. We may become unstable and wobble in the soil, as our anchor point disintegrates. In a final, desperate attempt to survive, we might drop healthy leaves to propagate a new self, a testament to our will to live even as part of us dies.
If you intervene, the process of saving us is a traumatic but necessary surgery. Being un-potted and having our rotten roots and stem cut away is a drastic measure. From our perspective, it is a amputation to stop the spreading decay. After the cuts have calloused over in a dry, airy environment, we begin one of our most innate processes: generating new roots. This is a slow and energy-intensive endeavor, fueled entirely by the water and nutrients stored in our remaining leaves. We are patiently waiting for a signal that the environment is safe—a hint of moisture—to trigger the growth of fresh, white, healthy roots into a new, well-draining home.
