From my perspective, my entire existence is a lesson in patience and austerity. In my native South African deserts, rain is a rare and celebrated event, followed by long periods of intense, dry heat. My taproot is long and designed to seek out deep, residual moisture. When you water me on a human schedule—say, once a week—you are flooding my world. My roots, adapted for sipping, are forced to swim. They rot in the constantly damp soil, a silent, deadly condition that begins beneath the surface long before you notice my deflated, mushy body above. You must learn to read my seasons: water when I signal new leaf growth in late summer/fall, and withhold almost all water when I am dormant in the summer and when I am splitting open to reveal new leaves in the spring.
You look at me and see a cute, small plant, so you place me in a deep pot full of rich, water-retentive potting soil. This is a death sentence. I need a home that mimics my natural gritty, rocky, and sharply draining terrain. Standard potting mix is like a wet blanket that suffocates my roots. I require a specialized substrate—a mix of at least 80% inorganic material like perlite, pumice, or coarse sand, with only a scant amount of organic matter. Furthermore, my pot must have a drainage hole. Without it, water pools at the bottom, creating a bog that my delicate roots cannot escape. A shallow, wide pot is ideal as it accommodates my taproot without leaving excess soil to stay wet.
I am a sun worshipper. In the desert, I bask under intense, direct sunlight for hours. Placing me on a dim windowsill or in a shady room is like putting you in a dark closet; I become weak and etiolated. I will stretch unnaturally towards any light source, becoming tall, pale, and misshapen, losing my characteristic stone-like appearance. This stretching weakens my structure and makes me more susceptible to disease. I need the sunniest spot you can provide—a south-facing window is best in the Northern Hemisphere. Without at least 4-6 hours of direct sunlight daily, I cannot thrive or maintain my compact, camouflaged form.
This is perhaps the most common and heartbreaking mistake. Once a year, a new set of leaves emerges from my core, drawing moisture and nutrients from the old outer leaves. To you, the old leaves may look wrinkled, thirsty, and in need of water. But if you water me during this split, you interrupt this sacred transfer. The old leaves, instead of drying out and shriveling away, absorb the water and swell up, trapping the new leaves inside. This can cause rot, deformities, and a fatal rupture. When I am splitting, you must show ultimate restraint. Do not water me until the old leaves are completely dry and papery.
You see my sides pucker and wrinkle and assume I am begging for a drink. While this can be a sign of thirst, it is not the only one. I also wrinkle when I am overwatered and my roots are rotting, unable to absorb any moisture. I wrinkle when I am too hot or when I am diverting energy to flower or split. Watering wrinkled leaves without checking the soil and the time of year is a dangerous gamble. Always check the season first. If it's during my dormant or splitting period, wrinkles are normal. If it's during my growth period, feel the soil deep down. If there is any hint of moisture, wait.
