I Thought My Parsley Was Gone Forever… Until It Surprised Me
What You'll Discover in This Post
In this emotional garden story, I take you through the moment I discovered my once healthy parsley collapsing from the inside, how convinced I was that I had completely lost it, and the slow but beautiful comeback that taught me a deep lesson about resilience. You'll see the parsley at its best, at its lowest, and during the surprising rebirth that unfolded right in the heart of Soshanguve's heat. I've included natural image placements showing the journey from lush growth, to decline, to recovery.
Introduction: When a Herb Breaks Your Heart
I've always believed that herbs are the "easy ones," the plants you grow when you want a bit of confidence in the garden. But life here in Soshanguve has shown me again and again that even the easiest plants can test your patience, your emotions, and your ability to trust that things will turn around. Parsley was always one of those herbs in my life that I never had to be concerned with. It kept on growing nicely, it would sever again after each harvest, and it would perfum my house with its fresh and clean smell. I used to pass it by and think to myself, "This is the least of my worries."
That is, until it decided to.
With my cup of tea in the hand, I entered my garden one morning and as usual, I went to see how the parsley was doing. The sun was there already and although it was early, it was its typical dry heat that was hitting the plants. But something looked different. My usually full, confident parsley looked thinner. By the time I leaned closer, I felt that little sting in my chest, the one you feel when something you love looks wrong.
The First Signs Something Was Wrong
At first, I tried to convince myself it was nothing. Maybe it just needed water. Maybe it was just adjusting to the heatwave we had that week. Maybe I had harvested too much last time. I stood over it, taking in the colour and the shape. Something felt off. It was not a case of wilting, wilting is something I could have handled, it was quite different. The leaves were still green, however, the overall look of the plant had changed. The stems appeared to be weaker, less supported. I don't know what it was, but something had gone wrong inside the plant.
That was the kind of moment when the whole garden seems to be silent. Even the wind appeared to be still while I was kneeling down and carefully separating the leaves to have a look at the base. And that's when my heart dropped properly. The crown, the very centre where parsley pushes out new life, had collapsed.
It wasn't soft like normal growth. It wasn't firm like a healthy plant. It seemed as if it was hollowed out, split open as if something had devoured it from the inside. The center was basically a sunken brown, dry, and mummified tissue.
It made me think of a tree stump that has been left to rot for several months, only this one was new, and it was my parsley.
And I was so shocked with the sight that I just stood there without moving, and my eyes were glued to it.
The Moment I Thought I Had Lost It Completely
I won't lie the first thought that crossed my mind was, "This is finished. I've lost it."
From my experience with growing herbs, I can tell that when the crown goes down, there is hardly any chance for it to get back to normal, especially in this hot weather. However, I still didn't want to take it out. I was still half believing that it might not be that bad. I was feeling the crown with my fingers and I came across some spots that were breaking off and that's when it occurred to me.
But the fact remains: gardening is not only about the plants. It's really about the bond that you develop with them. I personally grew that parsley from a very small seedling. I had taken from it to make my stews, my omelettes, my teas. It was the little thing that had been there among all the surprises of the garden. Losing it felt heavier than it should have.
And I remember standing there whispering to myself, "How did it even get this bad?"
Then I remembered that hectic week where I only watered every second day because of errands and exhaustion. Our Soshanguve sun didn't forgive me for that.
Trying to Save Something That Looked Unsavable
Even though the crown looked destroyed, I still couldn't bring myself to pull the plant out. I told myself, "Let me just water it gently. Let me just give it a chance." So that's what I did. Every morning, before the sun got aggressive, I poured a small amount of water directly around the base. Not too much I didn't want to cause rot but enough to bring some moisture back into the soil. I stopped harvesting completely. I stopped disturbing it. I just watered, observed, and hoped.
And for a few days, nothing changed. The leaves still looked stressed. The crown still looked dead. I even avoided walking near it because I didn't want to face the truth. And yet, something in me refused to give up.
The Surprise That Changed Everything
About five days later, I was outside early, breathing in that cool morning air that only lasts a few minutes before the heat pushes in. I didn't even go to the parsley bed intentionally I walked past it on my way to check my peppers. But something caught my eye. A tiny green flash inside the broken crown.
I knelt down so fast I almost dropped my cup.
There it was, the smallest curl of green, like a miniature hand reaching out of the soil. Then I saw another one. And another. My heart jumped. Those were new shoots. My parsley wasn't dead. It had been gathering strength silently beneath that damaged crown the whole time.
The plant had chosen to live.
The Recovery: Slow, Beautiful, and Emotional
From the moment I saw those tiny leaves, my entire attitude changed. Every morning became a small celebration. I'd kneel down and check on the progress like I was visiting a friend in recovery. The shoots grew taller. The colour deepened. New tiny curls were forming on the rims of the aged crown, it looked almost like the plant was reviving itself from the wreckage of its previous.
I only gave it a small dose of compost tea once a week, a little too strong it was not, I certainly did not want to give it a shock. I covered it from the burning midday sun by putting an old crate next to it, thus the strips of the crate were letting the light pass in bits. Also, I took the soil to be regularly wet, not drenched, just gently watered in the way parsley is.
The transformation wasn't instant. It took time, patience, and faith. But the day the parsley finally formed a full set of fresh leaves again, I almost felt emotional. The plant that had looked completely gone was now standing upright with new growth, almost shining with a deeper green than before. It was smaller than it once was, but it was alive and it was determined.
Looking Back at the Scar That Told the Story
Even now, the old crown still has that hollowed-out scar, that reminder of how close I came to losing the plant. But I love that scar. It tells a story of survival. It reveals the real truth of gardening: that not everything will work out for you, that plants will frighten, challenge, and even disappoint you but eventually, they will make you hopeful again.
Whenever I come across the fresh growth beside the old broken centre, it gives me the feeling of witnessing a small triumph. A reminder that life is still very much alive, even in the heat, even in neglect, even in collapse.
Conclusion: The Lesson My Parsley Taught Me
This parsley story taught me more than just plant care. It taught me that things aren't always finished just because they look finished. Sometimes life manages to grow in places where it looks like everything is lost. Sometimes it takes only a few drops of water and a little bit of patience to see a miracle happening in your garden.
Today, every time I cut fresh parsley from the very plant for my cooking, I feel like I'm paying a tribute to its struggle. I like it more. I don't take more than necessary. I really watched it as a mother watches her child. And I keep smiling because I know what it had gone through.
My garden, which is always full of life lessons, this resilient little herb of mine, was the one to remind me that quitting is not the best thing to do, not with plants, not with moments, and not with anything that still has even a little bit of life.
