The Plight of the Dandelion

Originally published on Trauma Conscious.

Trigger warning: Suicide attempt mention, emotional abuse.

There is a theory that has been popularized in the mental health community which places people into one of two categories — a binary that labels you either as resilient and able to thrive in many environments or sensitive and needing certain conditions in order to blossom into something beautiful. This is the dandelion vs. orchid theory. The dandelions are, theoretically, able to endure conditions, events, and challenges that orchids tend to wilt under, potentially based on the random chance of temperament.

This theory has been explained in a number of popular TikTok videos going back as far as 2020. I was introduced to the concept by one such video and immediately recognized the dichotomy in the differences between my sister and myself. She was the one who was called overly sensitive, needy, and demanding, and she appeared to struggle far more than I did with school, friends, and the various stressors that children tend to face. I, on the other hand, was praised for being able to take things in stride and never seeming to need much from our parents.

To be honest, I was not initially flattered by the metaphor. Our society doesn’t exactly place high value on dandelions — rather, they are denigrated as weeds and people often put great effort into getting rid of them, while orchids are prized for their beauty.

However, that resentment was soon overridden by concern for the so-called dandelions, because while I may have gotten the right grades in school, never caused trouble, and took care of myself like a good little weed — while I outwardly appeared to be thriving without help — I was inwardly struggling. In fact, much of the time, I was barely hanging on. But as long as my little yellow petals shined, nobody noticed, all while they kept offering me the message that my value laid in my ability to stay alive even while being trampled daily as I grew in my little crack in the pavement.

The reality was that my parents were emotionally abusive, and our home was a psychological minefield even when it wasn’t an outright war zone. I wasn’t thriving in those conditions — no plant or child could. What I was doing was pretending. I may have started out with a temperament that got me labeled as the easy one compared to my more sensitive sister, but chronic abuse will wear down the best of defenses. But because I was praised for not needing help, I continued to hide and ignore my own needs. My sister, meanwhile, was labeled as needy, and so she took on that role. Children will almost always take on the role that their caregivers place upon them, whether positive or negative.

So she demanded what she needed, she acted out when she didn’t get it, she fought with mom, she struggled in school, she developed more health problems, she rebelled, and generally shouted to the rooftops that the way she was being treated and the environment she was in wasn’t acceptable. She got the attention, she was labeled a problem, she was diagnosed with all kinds of things, and everyone knew she was unhappy.

For years, even as the youngest in the family and six years younger than my sister, I did everything I could to hold her up. Seeing her deprived of emotional support by my parents, and convinced that I was better off than her, I listened to her vent about her problems for hours on end, sometimes far past my bedtime, and sometimes on topics inappropriate for my age. I listened as she went in circles, obsessively, again and again, and wracked my brain for just the right comforting words to water her, to nourish her, to save her.

I did it because I was literally afraid that if I didn’t, she would die. No one else was there for her. I took on responsibility for her life because I was told that I was fine. I was the thriving, resilient little dandelion who didn’t need any attention or care.

I wasn’t fine. I wasn’t fine when I was a child in single digits trying to act as a tiny therapist, I wasn’t fine when I was a pre-teen and she told me about her suicide attempt, I wasn’t fine when my own symptoms of depression and anxiety emerged and I still felt like I had to take on every one of her problems, fears, and conflicts. I continued to listen and nod and try to offer whatever advice and comfort my young, inexperienced mind could think of, and I could never say no, even as our sessions dragged on well into the school night.

This pattern continued into adulthood, when she had a child of her own. I became the one of two people she would trust to babysit who would bother to do so for more than an hour or so every once in a while, and I again almost never refused when she asked. I’d babysit for long hours whenever I was asked, typically without pay, all while dealing quietly with fatigue from intense insomnia as well as continuing depression and generalized anxiety, plus all the stress that comes from trying to find your place in a system that demands you assert yourself and project self-importance — skills I had been taught would make me a needy, demanding, burdensome orchid.

This went on through the additional stresses of the pandemic and related political and social turmoil, all while watching the dream of homeownership skyrocket out of my reach and wondering if I had much future at all. I endured this quietly, still convinced that I was so much better off than my sister, still taking on her continuing struggles on top of my own, trying to keep her afloat as I began to drown.

It almost broke me. I began to feel a strange, new kind of anxiety that came with a feeling of deep emotional and mental exhaustion. Looking back, I’m pretty sure it was an internal alarm, warning me that I was in for something dire if I didn’t put down what I was carrying and rest.

Thankfully, I did. It took independent research into trauma and mental health, a supportive partner, and plenty of therapy, but I finally began to lay down some boundaries with my sister and the rest of my family. Unfortunately, none of them took it well, and I had to cut off contact with all of them in order to survive.

It turns out that either I was never really a dandelion, or the abuse took away my resilience, or, maybe, these “dandelions” are not what they seem. Certainly, some percentage of people who would be deemed dandelions must be like me — only pretending that the hard things don’t impact them much, if at all.

I fear for the dandelions. I watch the videos of people talking about their dandelion siblings, or their presumed dandelion selves, and I wonder if the yellow petals are masking a growing rot inside. I worry that in time, they will collapse in a way I very nearly did because nobody ever told them that they’re not just weeds, that their needs do matter, and that constant self-sacrifice is not a virtue, but a curse and a potential death sentence.

And I fear that, like mine, the people they supported because they thought they were the lucky, resilient ones will turn on them the moment they reveal that their petals are also wilting and their stems buckling from the neglect of their needs — that they will feel like failures and selfish monsters because they stopped giving all they had for the orchids in their lives on the belief that they didn’t need much at all.

That’s how you lose dandelions.

So please, if there are people in your life that you have labeled as dandelions, check in on them. Many of those who appear resilient are only putting on a bright yellow mask over their pain, exhaustion, and inner turmoil. They may have taken on too much responsibility for the orchids who wisely demand what they need, and don’t have enough soil and sunlight left to survive for long.

But mostly, remember that people aren’t flowers. We are complex and incredibly diverse animals who all need support, understanding, rest, and love. Make sure all the people you care about are nourished, and don’t ignore the alarm bells. Humans aren’t so easily replaced.