I bought strawberries for aesthetic reasons, and I want to be honest about that upfront because this was not a “I’m making a wholesome breakfast for my body” situation, this was a “strawberries in a cute container equals new life” situation. 

They were bright red, perfectly glossy, and sitting in the produce section looking like a fresh-start mood board. My brain immediately started writing a story where I wake up early, slice them neatly, put them in yogurt, drink water like a responsible fairy, and become the kind of person who has matching lids.

So I bought them. I even bought the big container, which is how you know I was feeling ambitious, like I was about to be a strawberry household for the foreseeable future. 

Two days later, they went bad. Not “slightly soft.” Not “maybe salvageable.” Full dramatic strawberry betrayal, the kind where you open the container and the smell tells you the truth before your eyes do.

I stood there holding the container like it had personally wronged me, and I felt that familiar mix of disappointment and self-annoyance that comes with wasted food, because it’s the feeling of, “Why am I like this,” and the embarrassing part is I already knew the answer.

Good intentions still need a plan, because good intentions without a plan are basically just vibes, and vibes do not preserve strawberries.

The Aesthetic Lie Strawberries Tell Me Every Time

Strawberries have incredible marketing, and by marketing I mean they are naturally pretty, which is unfair, because I am a person who will be fooled by pretty produce like it’s a personality upgrade. 

Strawberries make me believe I’m about to become organized, hydrated, and emotionally stable, even though I am currently a person who has a drawer full of single socks and a cabinet full of spices I reorganize when I’m stressed.

I think I buy strawberries when I want a reset. They feel like a clean slate, like I can eat something bright and fresh and suddenly my week will feel less chaotic. 

They are the fruit version of “new notebook energy,” except strawberries don’t sit politely on a shelf. Strawberries are perishable little divas, and they require follow-through.

Good intentions still need a plan, and strawberries are the most ruthless teachers of that truth.

The Moment I Realized I Was Buying a Fantasy, Not a Snack

The day I bought them, I was in a mood. Not a dramatic mood, just a mild “I need something that makes me feel like I’m doing okay” mood. I had been a little tired, a little scattered, and I wanted a small win, something that felt like I was taking care of myself.

So when I saw the strawberries, I didn’t just see fruit, I saw an identity. I saw myself making cute breakfasts. I saw myself packing a little snack bowl. I saw myself being the person who remembers to eat fruit before it dissolves into sadness in the back of the fridge.

I did not, however, see myself making a plan for how I would actually use them, which is the part that matters.

Here’s the part I messed up, so you don’t have to: I bought strawberries like the purchase itself was the self-care, when self-care is also the follow-through.

The Two Days of Denial

Day one, I ate a few. They were delicious. I felt validated. I thought, “See, I am a strawberry person now,” which is the kind of confidence that always gets me in trouble, because confidence makes you stop being careful.

Then I put the container back in the fridge and told myself I’d have more tomorrow, and tomorrow I got busy, and busy turned into “I’ll do it later,” and later turned into “I forgot they exist.”

This is why I can’t pretend my fridge is a magical holding space that keeps food fresh forever. My fridge is more like a waiting room, and if you don’t call your name, the strawberries will leave.

Good intentions still need a plan, and the plan cannot be “I will remember,” because my brain is a chaotic place and remembrance is not guaranteed.

The Two-Day Betrayal Reveal

On day two, I opened the fridge, saw the strawberries, and had the passing thought of, “I should eat those,” which is not a plan, it’s a guilt note. Then I grabbed something else because it was easier, and I closed the fridge like I had done nothing wrong.

Later that night, I finally opened the container, and the strawberries were not okay. One had that soft spot that tells you the whole batch is about to stage a group rebellion. A couple had the beginnings of fuzz, which is the moment you realize the aesthetic has officially died.

I felt bad, because wasting food feels bad, and I also felt silly, because I had literally bought them for a fantasy version of me, and the real version of me needs systems, not just inspiration.

Good intentions still need a plan, and the plan has to match your actual life, not your aspirational montage.

The Tiny Emotional Spiral I Had About a Piece of Fruit

This is the part I didn’t expect: the strawberries made me feel like a failure, which is ridiculous, because they are strawberries, but emotions are not always logical, and sometimes a small waste triggers bigger feelings.

It triggered the feeling of being inconsistent, of starting things and not following through, of wanting to be “better” and not magically becoming better because I bought produce.

So I had to talk to myself like I was a friend, because I needed to keep the lesson without turning it into shame. The lesson is not “you’re hopeless.” The lesson is “your intentions are good, but they need a plan.”

That’s a practical message, not a punishment.

The Plan I Wish I’d Made Before I Bought Them

I’m not making this a strict food-storage tutorial, but I am saying that if you are a person who buys strawberries for vibes, you need a tiny system, because strawberries demand a tiny system.

Here’s what would have saved me:

Strawberry Plan That Works for Real Humans

• Decide how you’ll use them in the next 48 hours before you buy them
• Eat a portion the same day you bring them home, even if it’s just a handful
• Choose one “default” use so you don’t have to think, like yogurt, cereal, or a smoothie
• Put them at eye level in the fridge so they aren’t forgotten behind a sad bag of spinach

Good intentions still need a plan, and the plan has to be simple enough that you’ll do it even when you’re tired.

What I Did the Next Time So I Didn’t Repeat the Same Strawberry Tragedy

The next time I bought strawberries, I treated it like a tiny commitment. I washed them right away, just a quick rinse, and I dried them gently so they wouldn’t get soggy, because soggy strawberries are basically doomed strawberries.

Then I portioned some into a small container at the front of the fridge, the “grab me now” container, because I know myself, and if it’s not easy, it won’t happen. I also made a rule that if I wanted strawberries for aesthetic, I had to pair them with a plan.

I’m not trying to become a perfect person. I’m trying to become a person who sets herself up to succeed in small ways. Good intentions still need a plan, and a small plan is still a plan.

The Message, Woven Through the Whole Story

This isn’t really about strawberries, obviously. It’s about how often we buy things, start things, or want things with good intentions, and then we rely on motivation to carry us through, even though motivation is the flakiest friend in the group chat.

The strawberries were a reminder that wanting a better life isn’t the same as building one, and building one doesn’t require huge discipline, it requires small systems that fit your real habits. It requires planning for the version of you who gets tired, distracted, and hungry.

Good intentions still need a plan, and the plan is not a sign you’re failing, it’s a sign you’re learning how you actually function. I treated “buying the thing” like I had already done the work, when the work is the small follow-through.

Your Turn

What’s your version of aesthetic strawberries, the thing you buy because it looks like a better life and then it quietly goes bad on you, because I swear we all have one.

I want us to be honest about it without turning it into shame, because good intentions are sweet, but they still need a plan.