String of hearts, winter windowsills, and lessons in loving without overwatering
Delicate vines dotted with tiny, heart-shaped leaves trail and twist as they grow, making string of hearts just as charming spilling from a basket as it is trained into shape. It is a plant that seems content to follow gravity, until it does not.
In my own home, a pink string of hearts has been slowly climbing a heart-shaped trellis, guiding itself upward rather than being forced to spill downward like tradition suggests. It has taken its time, choosing its own direction, wrapping and reaching where it sees fit. Watching it grow has been a gentle reminder that plants, much like people, do not always have to follow one prescribed path to thrive.
Despite its dainty appearance, string of hearts (Ceropegia woodii) is surprisingly forgiving. It prefers bright, indirect light, where it can soak up plenty of sun without being scorched. In those conditions, the leaves grow closer together and often blush with the soft pink tones many gardeners fall in love with. In lower light, the vines stretch and thin a bit, reaching and searching, but the plant itself keeps going. Resilient, even when conditions are not perfect. I find that comforting.
It is also one of the easiest plants to share, which may be part of its quiet charm. A short cutting, just two to three inches, can be placed directly into soil, while longer vines can be gently wrapped along the soil surface and secured with a bent piece of wire or even a bobby pin, where they will root naturally on their own schedule. Water propagation works just as well. Remove the bottom leaves, tuck the stem into a glass of water, and wait. Roots appear almost before you realize you have been patient.
There are several varieties of string of hearts, from the classic green-and-silver to pink-variegated forms and cultivars like ‘Silver Glory,’ which features broader leaves with heavier silver markings. Thankfully, they all ask for the same basic care, making it easy to mix varieties or slowly add new ones without overthinking things. That is a relief for those of us who remember being gray thumbs once upon a time.
String of hearts also shares a close family resemblance with hoyas, which explains their similar trailing habits and thick, water-storing leaves. One popular lookalike is hoya curtisii, often considered a “dupe” for string of hearts thanks to its small, speckled, heart-shaped leaves and trailing growth habit. I do not have one just yet, but I have promised myself that within the next year, I will. When I do, I fully intend to report back on how it compares, how easy it is to care for, and whether the dupe lives up to the hype. Consider this a note to my future self and an open invitation for readers to check back in with me next year.
That green-and-silver variety has taught me a lesson of its own. For months, it quietly thrived in a mixed basket alongside a string of bananas, even as the rest of the succulents sharing that space slowly declined from my well-intentioned neglect. While others faded, the strings carried on, unbothered, asking for far less than I assumed they needed. It was a humbling realization and a useful one. String varieties, despite being grouped with succulents, need significantly less frequent watering. What feels like care for one plant can be far too much for another.
It can be endlessly frustrating to realize one plant is drowning from too much attention, while an almost identical one nearby is quietly thriving on what feels like pure neglect. Plants are a constant give-and-take. When we give them too much, too much water or too much fuss, we eventually have to take something away to restore balance. The extra we meant as love becomes something they need relief from.
Sometimes, when you realize you have overwatered a plant or a relationship, the instinct is to rush in and fix it immediately. To add more care, more words, more effort, hoping it will even things out. But string of hearts has taught me that the first step is often the opposite. You let it breathe. You let it dry out. You give the roots space to recover before asking them to take in anything new.
Other times, the warning sign shows up in a way gardeners know well. The soil pulls away from the edges of the pot, what is commonly called the “crack of death.” It looks dramatic, and it can be, but it is not the end. It simply means the soil has gone too dry for too long and can no longer absorb water all at once. The solution is not drowning it. It is patience. A slow rehydration. Time for the soil to soften and reabsorb moisture gradually before the plant is given what it truly needs.
That lesson carries over, too. When things have been stretched thin, when we have hovered too much or not shown up enough, repair does not happen in one sweeping gesture. It happens in stages. Space first. Then presence. Then care, offered gently, once it can actually be received.
Lately, I have been experimenting again, tucking a regular green-and-silver string of hearts into my more vigorous pink one. I am hoping the two will find their balance, that the bold color will not overwhelm the quieter steadiness, and that each will make room for the other. It feels fitting this time of year. Love, after all, works best when there is space for contrast.
The longer I live with string of hearts, the more I realize it is quietly teaching lessons that reach beyond the windowsill. It does not ask for grand gestures or constant reassurance. Instead, it thrives on consistency, patience, and enough room to grow into itself. Romantic love, platonic friendships, parental care, all of them flourish best when nurtured without being smothered. When affection is present but not forced. When support exists even in the background. String of hearts does not need to be loved loudly. It simply asks to be loved well.
As Valentine’s Day approaches, heart-shaped houseplants naturally take center stage. Heartleaf philodendron, heartleaf fern, trailing hoyas, they all fit the season while remaining meaningful long after February fades into March. These plants bring warmth indoors during winter and serve as quiet reminders that care and patience matter far more than perfection.
Whether trailing freely, trained into a heart, or shared through cuttings passed from hand to hand, string of hearts and its heart-shaped companions offer a kind of beauty that does not fade when the holiday is over. They linger, quietly growing, long after the cards are tucked away and the chocolates are gone.
And honestly, I think that is the best kind of Valentine there is.
