I have never been a plant lady. More than once, my sister Emily gifted me a succulent, assuring me “this one will be hard to kill.” But sure enough, six weeks later the promised set-it-and-forget-it plant would be wilted and beyond saving. That is, until last year. I was basking in the glory of a pothos plant that managed to be with us over 365 days, its ropy vines draped feet beneath the hanging basket, to the point I had to cut them.

But I had worked for those green tendrils and struggled with the idea of throwing away such rare (for me) stems, so I sent out an SOS to a few friends: “How does one propagate a plant?” The advice rolled in, and soon enough I set a stem in a glass bottle near the kitchen window.

Days passed. Then weeks. My little plant baby was still alive, which was great. But no roots were evident. I grew impatient. Visitors began asking about the random stem sitting in my window, and I wondered whether anything would ever happen. Finally, a month or two into the whole process, a tiny, white shoot appeared. I’m pretty sure I squealed, “It’s happening!!”

In my excitement, I was ready to pull that baby plant out of the water and plop it in a pot. But thankfully, I paused. I remembered my history with plants and decided to send out yet another, “Okay, so what do I do now?” message to the plant people I knew on the internet. Again, they came through.

“Keep waiting,” they told me.

“Not yet.”

“Let the roots grow more roots, and then you can plant it.”

I went back to waiting. I made sure the stem and its little root had fresh water, and I gave it time. Within a few more weeks, the single root had multiplied until I had lost count of all the offshoots. It was time for planting.

As I dug my fingers into the dirt, feeling the glow of victory radiating from my chest, I carefully tucked that little stem into its piece of earth. I thanked it for its tenacity, knowing only then—on the other side of all the waiting and the caring—just how tender and beautiful a little plant could be.

Good things take time, not only with plants but with people.

My desire to rush the process has ended more than once in an over-saturated relationship. In my unwillingness to be patient and persevering, I have pushed too quickly. My personality wants to skip the small talk and go deep fast, to transplant relationships from acquaintance to friend, but not everyone is like me. And that’s a good thing. Because if I’m being honest, more than once I have revealed parts of my story or my struggles before either of us were ready. I have walked away feeling not only exposed but also full of regret, “If only I had given it a little more time…”

There’s value in embracing the long view and in making space for things to go slow and develop to maturity. Healthy relationships need both time and perseverance. Good, essential things happen in the waiting.

A friendship may not take root with the first person we invite over for coffee, in the first month of being in a small group, or in the first year of living in a new town. Sometimes, we are going to try and it’s not going to work out. But when we can continue to pay attention, persevere, and allow room for relationships to take root, we can keep going.

Deep connection keeps a long view in mind.

Since that first baby plant, there have been others. Some seedlings I have kept, and others I have potted and given away. I wouldn’t call myself a plant expert, but I do have a little more green in my thumb than I used to. And it’s enough to keep me going—watering and waiting with the hope of what is ahead.

“Embracing the Long View” was originally published as part of Between You + Me: Guided Reflections for the Relationally Weary. You can sign up to download your free copy of all five essays and reflections questions.