The frost has come or is soon coming to a garden near you – and yet I have a sneaking suspicion (judging from the reactions on my latest Instagram post @marianne.willburn) that tough decisions are still being avoided by otherwise sensible gardeners across the cold climates of America. The choice before them – and before us all – is this:

Do they stay or do they go? Will we keep the plants that no longer spark anything but obligation and a hernia, or let them go and free ourselves to pursue future love affairs?

You’d think it was an easy choice; and for the superficial minimalists out there who picked a plant specifically for the way its pot set off the color of the cabinet hardware, it is. 

But for the plant lovers, nuts, geeks, and nerds – particularly those who give their tender tropicals a #houseplantvacation each summer — there is much more at stake here.

Compulsion. Reputation. Superstition.  In short: Obligation. Because it sure as hell ain’t Satisfaction.

I know you. I know your heart because I share it.  You refused to make this decision as the days got shorter and the trees slowly undressed and the bulb order arrived.  Instead you figured you needed more time to think about it, and so you killed yourself hauling a rag tag bunch of misfits and magnificents indoors.  Half of them are as surprised as you are.

Now a long winter looms before you, and you’ve realized that taking them back outside to face that winter is far crueler than ‘accidentally’ leaving them outside in the first place.

If you’re staring at a plant or plants that a) you don’t like; b) you never truly loved; or, c) you loved, but which didn’t particularly care for you, and are now fully on life support, I’d like to help you and your windowsills in your struggle to be free.

Do any of these scenarios look familiar?

1.  I got that plant from [insert misguided loved one] on my [insert big number] birthday. 

Seriously now, what kind of masochist wants to observe the direct relationship between a rapidly growing plant and a very uncomfortable number?  Or start to cultivate the freaky superstition that killing the plant directly linked with one’s birthday might preclude having another?  Plant gifts work great for occasions or commemorations where years aren’t directly tagged to the sagging skin of the recipient. 

This is also true for any ‘money plant’ that was given to you with the admonition that, as long as it was alive, your financial life was not in danger.

Verdict: Compost pile. You can do so while you fondle a talisman of your choice if necessary. (Not a man of your choice.)

2.  I can’t get rid of that plant. I paid way too much for it.

What cost, life energy?  What cost, future re-potting supplies or buckled floors?  What cost, the guilt that drains you every time you look at it?

Do you know what happens when you look at a plant you actually adore, but for which (and by every estimation), you paid too much?

I’ll tell you from experience: You gaze at it over your scrambled eggs in the morning and think, with a soppy heart, “I love every sexy inch of you, and I’d buy you again in a heartbeat.”  

Verdict: Gift for a young plant lover.  Accidentally drop the price in conversation to cement your reputation as philanthropist.

3,  [Insert name] doesn’t have that plant. I do.

One upmanship is alive and well in plant circles. I think that we stand second only to the designer bag—and-shoes people in our desire to rub our plant collections in the faces of our peers.  Now that I’ve typed that out, I hope you feel as ashamed as I do.  

Verdict: Give the plant to one of those people. In penance, don’t feel smug about it.

4.  I own that plant because I’m a plant nerd and all plant nerds have it.

I’m guessing you weren’t a hippie/punk/goth in high school.  Break the unspoken rules. Buck the establishment.  Real plant people don’t need to own specific plants to be hip or knowledgeable or to prove their credentials. They just are.

Verdict: Compost pile.  Or give it to the friend above to go with the one he already has.

5.  I grew that plant from seed.

I bet you grow mulberry weed from seed too.  Do you keep them?

Verdict: Compost pile. Or make a larger pile for that friend.

6.  I rescued that plant from Certain Death.

I want you to know that you are a hero. A miracle worker. A bone-fide green-thumbed plant-whispering genius, and I don’t doubt for a minute that you could resuscitate a begonia left for four months in a teenager’s room without breaking a sweat. You are, in a word, amazing.

It still needs to go.

Verdict: Certain Death was cheated. Compost pile.

7.  My great aunt gave me that plant.

Did she also give you a washcloth set for Christmas when you were seven?  Do you still have it?

Verdict: Congratulations. You’ve just found a white elephant Christmas gift with fitting provenance for the family reunion Christmas. You’re welcome. Let’s hope the party is early in the month.

8.  I always put that plant in that corner.

If you find yourself holding onto a plant that has, over the years, become an accidental piece of furniture; and you also find yourself coincidentally scanning Instagram for miracle energizing cures to your boring winter décor, I’ve got an easy solution: get rid of the meh plant that’s stopping you from accessing your inner Martha.

Verdict:  Re-home with GenZ-er who needs any kind of furniture, boring or not.

9.  I love that plant but it wants to hurt me.

Agaves. Cacti. Bromeliads.  Most plants get too big for their britches at some point, but not all of them try to stab you in the eyeball when you reach down to take off your socks.  We only have two eyeballs.  There will always be agaves.

Verdict: If there are pups available, start again small. Carve them out, pot them up, hide their eyes, and drag their ferocious mother to the compost pile.  Or give her to a frenemy who is besotted by her curves. 

Agave murder

It tried to hurt me one too many times.

And here’s the Bonus

I’ve found myself in every one of these scenarios over the years, and I’m here to tell you that acting ruthlessly is addicting.  It’s like cleaning out a clothes closet.  Every time you part with something you never, ever thought you could part with and send it back into the universe, it feels so good that you can’t wait to do it again. 

And perhaps the very best part is that it allows other plants that you adore, to take the spotlight without distraction. Right now, after approximately eight plant murders committed with ruthlessness and precision, my dining room is filled with the plants I love, giving the place a healthy botanical atmosphere without the accompanying nutty professor vibe.

So please, stop reading this, put down the phone and clean up the crazy that’s going on in your window sill hospice or dark corner assisted living before they start to settle in and talk you out of it. And if you need even more absolution, please grab a copy of my book Tropical Plants and How To Love Them and read up on the magical, short-term joy of fully uncommitted Summer Romances. Or the chapter that begins, “Relationship Fatigue — It’s. So. Over.”

Let the reckoning begin! You got this.