"Now we need to get you out of here," says the catgirl.
"Well I can't exactly walk," you say. "I don't have legs."
"Oh... right. Let's look for a pot to plant you in."
The catgirl wanders off to look for a pot to put you in, and while she's gone you strain a few more times against your immobility, twisting where the soil meets your skin, just bellow the buttocks, but you're still firmly held to the soil by your roots. This is so frustrating. You wish you still had legs. You wish you didn't have roots or green skin. Even though the Sun felt really nice now, you hated being a plant. You wished you could still move around. And on top of it all you were feeling thirsty and knew you'd need to be watered soon. "Watered." That felt so weird to think about. You were used to drinking water, not soaking it up through your roots. Now you were an immobile human flower planted in the ground past your thighs, completely helpless.
The catgirl comes back with a pot about 4 feet across before too long, and grabs a shovel. It looks intimidating to you, perhaps an effect of your new plant body.
"Alright, get ready," she says.