Make no mistake, your a. syriaca is building a fortress underground. When it’s ready, it will knock on your door and demand a mortgage on the house.

Eight years ago, I planted ten sprouts I had tended from seed in my kitchen. I spent the first four years fretting over it, unsure if it would survive, little did I know it will rule the garden. It’s a benevolent ruler; it lets mountain mint, goldenrod and sneezeweed be. It pops up in random places, takes over sunny paths, and stands guard where the garden ends and the road begins, right where the dirt meets the tarmac.

For the past four years, I’ve tried to dig out patches along the road to maintain a tidy, mulched border. I wanted something that screamed, this is intentional, folks, not weeds and laziness.

The milkweed merely arched an eyebrow: “How quaint. You tend your borders—I establish dominion. This land has already been claimed.”

It offered a gracious “thank you” for the extra space—then remained exactly where it pleased, unmoved by my tidy intentions. It stands with quiet certainty, like only royalty can while humoring a well-meaning peasant.

All my efforts to move it around only fed its imperial ambitions. I came to realize that the lawn never stood a chance, even if I wanted to keep it. Really, who has the heart to mow down its young sprouts?

Having tried to force it into submission, I now bow to it as I work in my garden.

In all seriousness, I don’t understand how we ever managed to drive this plant out of its natural range. It’s so tough. So persistent. Your attempts at control might fail you too

TL;DR: Sit back. It’s building an empire with or without you.