Recently, I got rid of one of my favorite plants in the garden—the Chinese Virginia Creeper. I loved that plant so much that my heart would smile every time I saw its beautiful leaves covering the entire fence like nature’s curtain in my backyard. I found it so magical that, while it was barely there in winter with its empty stems, it flourished from spring to its peak abundance in summer. In autumn, it filled my garden with warm hues as the leaves turned red and orange. It was not a needy plant. I could forsake it for weeks without water, but it still grew. It grew and grew, and eventually, it choked me. Until I got rid of it.

Feelings do change. And too much of anything—even beauty, prosperity, and abundance—will not make anyone stay with you. In fact, it’s the opposite—it repels them.

In the beginning, it was a simple admiration. I liked it when I first saw that plant at a store: a small white hanging pot with a lovely trailing plant with beautiful five-leaflet leaves. It was during COVID, a time when many people, including me, turned to gardening as a pastime. But I have to say, I’ve been into gardening ever since I was young, influenced by my father—the one in the family who truly loves gardening. It was just during the pandemic that I was finally able to return to it, given that I had the time and we had the space after purchasing our own humble abode.

I liked the plant, so I bought it and brought it home to join my small collection of indoor and outdoor plants. I nurtured it and admired it more every day. I fell in love with it. It was summer when I bought it. When autumn came, the leaves changed color and started to fall. That’s when I decided to plant it in the ground.

The admiration turned to love.

Just like when we have a crush on someone, we admire them. Seeing that person makes us happy. We want them, we want to be with them, to hold them. We want to stay with them forever. Gardening is also a love story—from liking, to purchasing, to owning and nurturing. Like humans—from admiration to marriage. It sounds so perfect.

But it’s not perfect. Because nothing is perfect. When you think it’s the end, it’s just the beginning. The beginning is usually nice—more admiration, more caring, more nurturing. Just like when I was so in love with my plant, which showed rebirth in spring, abundance in summer, and breathtaking beauty in autumn. It was a beautiful year. And another year. Until the feelings changed.

The beautiful plant never stopped growing. Its stems extended far and wide. It covered the entire trellis and the concrete fence. It even grew beyond the boundary and onto the neighbor’s property. I had to tame it. I had to trim and cut, trim and cut, and repeat. At first, I thought it was just part of gardening. It was fun. It was even a stress reliever. So I shrugged it off. It didn’t matter—I needed to do this if I wanted to keep the plant. That’s the price I thought I had to pay.

But eventually, the toil became a chore. And yet, I still endured—for the love of the plant.

Just like loving someone we used to admire so much. We admired them and loved them for what they were, not knowing that one day, they would change. They evolve, as all living things do. Sometimes, the one we love requires more love and care. They become needy, and we give more because we love them. But by doing so, it wears out our hearts. It drains the love, the admiration—until all that remains is responsibility.

Another summer came, and my plant kept growing. I still liked it, but it demanded so much of my attention. I had to keep trimming it regularly. I started doubting whether it was worth keeping it in that state. But I kept on, until worse things happened. The abundant leaves attracted bees, and they made it their home—to my dismay. I was ready to cut it down after a few weeks, but then the bees and their hive disappeared. So, I thought, maybe I could give it another year.

But it didn’t happen. I finally found the courage to let it go. Coming home from a winter vacation, during the first week of January, my plant had shed all its leaves. All that remained were the empty stems. I started trimming the stems and left only a few—just enough to cover the gap between the neighbor’s aluminum fence and the concrete fence. But the longer I worked, I heard my other self whisper to me that I couldn’t do this anymore. That it would be better to let it go to free myself from this repetitive, menial task. That once doubt creeps in, it’s a sign it’s not meant to last. Just let it go.

 And so I did. I cut them all. I pulled the stems. I cut them into smaller pieces to fit the garbage bag. I pulled up the roots. I grabbed as much as I could, but I couldn’t get it all—it was already deeply rooted. Now, I can only hope it doesn’t come back in spring. That remains to be seen. Only time will tell.

Although gardening and life share similar philosophies, we cannot simply get rid of loved ones the way we remove needy or unwanted plants. Human beings are far different from plants. First of all, we have the gift of communication. As the highest form of living beings, humans can talk, listen, and understand. Through communication, we can sort things out. We can compromise. We can always change.

And when we think it’s the end, it’s often just another beginning. Another story. Another experience.