With my pot plant at death's door, I did the obvious thing: rushed it to hospital – Lisa Simonis

It all started when I decided to settle down. To turn my flat into a home. Until then, I had opted for the mortality of cut flowers over the longevity of indoor greenery. Plants, I thought, would bring a pop of life to rooms with white walls.

I remembered the maze of garden pots my mother planted – our home was forever blossoming in shades of pink and red, frequented by butterflies and hummingbirds that the cats liked to chase.

I did not inherit my mother’s green thumb. So, I made the strategic choice to get a plant notoriously hard to kill – a light green Pothos with heart-shaped leaves and pointed tips that I hung from my glass balcony door. Soon, a whole collection of plants had made my home theirs.

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Mother Earth’s Plantasia

The first close call came two winters ago. While preparing to host a friend, I spotted dull, droopy leaves crying out for hydration. My friend mentioned that she and her boyfriend play an album for their plants: Mort Garson’s Mother Earth's Plantasia, released in 1976 and composed specifically for plants. It's a whistling, synth-heavy, joy-filled 30-minute listen. Apparently something in the sound waves makes plants happy.

I made it an event to round up the plants every other weekend, shower them in the bath, and as they sat draining, I would play them their music. For a time, they did seem happier.

And then I blinked. Somehow it was July again, and while nurturing shoots of creativity in my professional career, my once-flourishing home had become a plant graveyard. I told myself I had just watered them the week before — a promise I had been making for months.

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A secret plant helper

Along with the plants, my flat wilted. A home, I have found, has less to do with furniture and more to do with people and memories. I remember that night I watched a handball game with a friend, screaming at the TV, celebrating each goal, and that afternoon when another friend brought her electric drill to open the wooden crate that contained the first piece of artwork for the flat, which we hung together.

I remember dinner parties for two with my friend Nick. While I was in the kitchen plating vegetable paella, I could hear his footsteps on the wooden floor, a glass of water in hand.

Once or twice, the water from his glass snuck down to the plants. I now suspect it might have been Nick, not me, keeping them alive.

I piled the lifeless plants into the sink and watered them for days, attempting to make up for all the times I hadn’t. Embarrassment stared back at me from barren pots of parched stems and brown, crunchy leaves.

And still, I couldn't bring myself to bin them until I was absolutely certain my plants were extinct. That’s when my first companion, the light-green, hanging Pothos, sprouted a tiny, water-beaded shoot.

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Houseplant hospital

Serendipitously, someone mentioned Hilda in Leith, the UK’s first dedicated, fully equipped care space for houseplants. A week ago, I rushed my fading Pothos to the hospital, walking into the striking blue storefront with my potted crisis hidden in a paper bag. The shop's fresh scent felt like a breath of forest air. Healthy, lush plants hung from shelves and clustered together on tables.

Hilda, founded by plant enthusiast Rosanna Costello, began as pop-ups around the city before finding a permanent home – the hospital evolving from a humble countertop to a fully equipped treatment space.

Behind a green curtain, there's a grey wrap-around counter, white tiled walls, and a large metal sink that makes the room resemble a vet's. A section of plants hides under sheer, plastic-free netting to manage bugs and pests on one side of the room.

Hesitating to remove my barely-there Pothos from the bag, I set it down in front of Rosanna. She examined it carefully while I nervously word-vomited what felt like my entire life story. Listening patiently, she explained that Pothos are remarkably resilient and that I'd likely been alternating between under-watering and over-watering mine.

Upon being checked into the hospital, my plant was scheduled for surgery – it would be depotted to examine the roots, ensure there was no mould present, and determine treatment. It would likely also be downsized to prune away dead parts.

The final diagnosis: my Pothos would live (at least some of it). With care, it seemed it would be thriving again in a few months.

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No judgment

Rosanna explained she started the plant hospital because it’s the exact kind of support she wished she had when she first started having plants. There was no judgment about the state of my plant and she said it’s completely normal for beginners to lack houseplant knowledge.

I left my Pothos at Hilda's, where it will remain a patient until I bring it home later today. That night, I curled up on the sofa watching Matthew McConaughey in one of those early-2000s rom-coms, when I spotted the Monstera in the purple pot next to the TV, looking droopy and yellow. Not again.

The next morning, I sipped my oat flat white at my regular spot when the barista asked about my Saturday plans. “Taking my Monstera to the hospital,” I confessed. To my surprise, he shared that his Monstera was also struggling – too much sunlight, he suspected.

In plant triage mode, I walked into Hilda for the second time, Monstera in hand, a reformed houseplant killer and ready to learn new skills.

Lisa Simonis is a writer, artist and art historian currently based in Edinburgh