Stop Watering the Weeds: A Cactus-Led Guide to Unsafe Love Recovery

Why We Wrote This

You’re flying down the highway—top down, tires humming, that particular shade of pink on your Toyota catching the light just right. There’s lipstick in the glove box and heat in the rearview.

The kind of heat that’s been tailing you for miles. A man-shaped mirage with charm for sale and boundary issues baked in.

You squint against the sun, arm out the window, heart just a little too tired. The soda sign flickers ahead. A real Coke machine—dusty, sun-faded, standing outside what might’ve been a gas station three decades ago.

You pull over. Flip-flops hit gravel. Wind kicks up.

Actual bottles. Glass ones. You laugh a little, like—is this a joke? Is this a dream?

Then the door swings shut behind you and suddenly—

“Ma’am?”
His voice is smooth like creek water over rock.
“Need you a quarter?”

You turn. Cowboy hat, crooked grin, jaw like trouble. You didn’t hear his spurs jingling, but there they are now, somehow audible in your chest.

He leans in. Too casual. Too close.
“Sure is hot today,” he says, eyes glinting.
“Hope you’re not out here all alone.”

You open your mouth. Maybe to flirt. Maybe to lie. Maybe to give him the whole story of why you drove this far to begin with.

But then—

“GO ON AN’ GIT.”

The screen door bangs open like a punchline. Barb steps out of the dust cloud, hand on hip, wig slightly askew, attitude cranked to eleven. She’s got a lip liner darker than her morals and a neck tattoo of a rose cactus that says Try Me.

She clocks him like he’s already been tried.

“You smell like half-truths and high maintenance,” she says.
“Back off before I give you something to chew on that ain’t beef jerky.”

He stammers. He backs up. He’s gone.

You’re still standing there, hand hovering over the Coke machine. Heart pounding. A little dazed.

Barb gives you a once-over.

“You got any idea how much water you’ve been wasting on weeds?”
She pops the top on her soda with a car key and hands it to you.
“Come on. Let’s talk.”

And that’s how this book begins.

Not with rescue. With recognition.

Maybe you worry you're a little lost. But really? You're just waking up.
And you're done pretending the mirage was a lake.

Stop Watering Weeds is a cactus-led survival guide for recovering from unsafe love. For noticing when someone’s selling scarcity dressed as soulmates. For the fawners and the fixers who are finally choosing to grow something real.

You got your own roots now. And Barb?

She’s here for every repotting moment.