Six months ago, I bought my first houseplant with any real intention of keeping it alive.
Now there are thirteen of them in my office.
Thirteen small lives sitting in different pots, in different moods, responding to the same window, the same light, the same air, and somehow each doing something completely different with those conditions. Some are thriving. Some are suspicious of me. One—my snake plant—is slowly staging what I can only describe as a nervous system collapse.
And I find myself looking at them the same way I now look at my own body.
Curiously.
Patiently.
Trying to understand what conditions allow life to expand—and what conditions quietly shut it down.
For eight years I taught stress management and meditation to people whose jobs require enormous nervous system resilience. First responders. Teachers. ER doctors. I knew how to guide breath. I knew how to move people out of acute stress states.
But I did not fully understand the deeper architecture of the nervous system until mine stopped cooperating.
That is when Stephen Porges’ work on Polyvagal Theory became less like theory and more like a map.
And oddly enough, my plants have become part of the lesson.
The Spider Plant: When the System Feels Safe
My spider plant is having the time of its life.
It’s lush. Bright. Sending out these long green tendrils like it’s reaching toward the room saying, “Yes, more of this please.” It grows in a relaxed way—no strain, no urgency, just steady expansion.
Every time I look at it I think: ventral vagal.
In Polyvagal Theory, the ventral vagal state is the nervous system’s condition of safety and connection. This branch of the vagus nerve—myelinated and evolutionarily newer—supports social engagement, digestion, curiosity, play. When this system is online our facial muscles soften, our voice carries warmth, our heart rhythm becomes flexible.
In other words, when the nervous system feels safe, it allocates energy toward life.
The spider plant isn’t growing because I lecture it about growth. It’s growing because the environment supports it. It has consistent light. The watering schedule is predictable. The temperature is stable.
Plants don’t grow because of motivation.
They grow because the conditions are right.
Human nervous systems are not that different.
The Snake Plant: A Slow Withdrawal
Then there’s my snake plant.
Snake plants are supposed to be the easy ones. Every plant book says they are almost impossible to kill. They tolerate low light. They survive inconsistent watering. They’re basically the houseplant version of a hardy first responder.
Mine is slowly declining.
Not dramatically. No theatrical leaf drop. Just a gradual dulling of color. Leaves curling inward slightly. The energy of the plant feels… withdrawn.
And I look at it and think: dorsal vagal.
Polyvagal theory describes the dorsal vagal system as the older branch of the vagus nerve associated with immobilization. When the nervous system perceives that mobilizing—fighting, running, fixing—is not going to resolve the situation, it shifts into conservation mode.
Heart rate slows. Blood pressure drops. Energy retreats.
This can look like depression. Exhaustion. Dissociation. It can look like a body quietly pulling the plug on engagement.
The snake plant hasn’t died.
It has simply stopped participating.
If you’ve ever lived through nervous system collapse—dysautonomia, burnout, chronic stress—you recognize that posture immediately.
The Middle State: Sympathetic Stretching
A few of my other plants are somewhere in between.
They lean dramatically toward the window. Their leaves stretch, reaching for light like they’re saying, “I can handle this, just give me more resources.”
That reminds me of sympathetic activation.
This is the mobilization branch of the autonomic nervous system. The part that raises heart rate, increases blood pressure, releases cortisol through the HPA axis, and prepares the body to meet a challenge.
This state is not bad.
It is how we meet deadlines, surf waves, perform surgery, give presentations.
The problem comes when the nervous system never gets the signal that the effort is complete.
Plants that stretch endlessly toward light without ever getting enough eventually weaken.
Humans do too.
Thirteen Plants and a Nervous System
Something surprising has happened as I’ve been tending these plants.
Caring for them regulates me.
I check the soil in the morning. Rotate a pot slightly toward the window. Wipe dust off the leaves. Notice which plant needs water and which one needs to be left alone.
These are small acts. Quiet acts. But they shift something in my physiology.
There’s research supporting this. Studies published in the Journal of Physiological Anthropology have shown that interacting with indoor plants reduces sympathetic nervous system activity and lowers blood pressure. Participants who spent time caring for plants experienced decreased heart rate and reported greater feelings of comfort compared to those doing computer tasks.
Plants slow us down.
And slowing down is one of the most direct ways to influence vagal tone.
My office now feels alive in a way it never did before. Thirteen plants breathing quietly with me while I work. Thirteen reminders that growth rarely looks dramatic in real time.
Purpose in Small Responsibilities
There’s another layer to this that I didn’t expect.
Having thirteen plants means thirteen small responsibilities.
They depend on my attention. Not obsessively, but regularly. And that rhythm—checking in, adjusting, noticing—creates a subtle sense of purpose.
When a nervous system has gone through collapse, big goals can feel overwhelming. But small acts of care are manageable.
Water the plant.
Rotate the pot.
Notice the new leaf.
Purpose does not always arrive as a grand calling.
Sometimes it arrives as a watering can.
And that’s enough.
The Real Lesson
When I look at these plants, what strikes me most is how neutral they are about their growth.
The spider plant doesn’t feel proud of thriving.
The snake plant doesn’t feel ashamed of struggling.
They simply respond to conditions.
We tend to interpret our nervous system states as personal failures. If we feel anxious we assume we are weak. If we feel shut down we assume we are broken.
But Polyvagal theory suggests something different.
Your nervous system is not judging you.
It is responding to the environment.
And sometimes the most compassionate question we can ask ourselves is not “What is wrong with me?” but rather:
What conditions would allow my system to feel safe enough to grow again?
A Few Gentle Practices
Over the last year I’ve noticed a few things that help both my plants—and my nervous system—thrive.
Consistent light matters. For humans, that might look like time outside each day where your eyes can soften and your body can orient toward a horizon instead of a screen.
Predictable rhythms matter. Plants like regular watering; nervous systems like regular sleep and breath rhythms. Slow breathing around five to six breaths per minute has been shown to improve vagal tone and heart rate variability.
Attention matters. Plants respond to observation, and so do we. Simply noticing what state your body is in without judgment changes the relationship.
And patience matters more than anything. Neither plants nor nervous systems respond well to force.
When I sit in my office now, surrounded by these thirteen plants, I feel a quiet companionship. Some of them are flourishing. Some are figuring it out. One or two might not make it.
But every single one is teaching me something about the conditions that allow life to continue.
So here’s something I’d love you to sit with for a moment.
If your nervous system were a houseplant sitting in the corner of your life right now—
would it look like the spider plant, expanding easily into the light?
Or would it look more like the snake plant, slowly withdrawing because something in the environment isn’t quite right?
And if that’s the case… what small change in the conditions around you might allow it to start growing again?
Thank you for reading and being with me.
Lane