It started with my dad telling me I could grow loofahs if I put my mind to it. His encouragement stayed with me, from those first seeds to the loofahs I grew.
 While I was growing them, I was also taking care of him. Both needed me, and I was there for both. That was my first ritual: showing up, tending with love, and watching what could grow. I didn’t know then that tending them would steady my hands and soften my heart. What began with my dad believing I could do it became something I could hold in my hands, something I had grown with care. That same care is what I bring to Iron and Ivy Apothecary, from my garden to your glow.

 

There is something special about knowing where a ritual begins. For me, it begins in the garden, with the loofahs I grow and the care I give them along the way. Before they become part of your routine, they are seeds, vines, and a reason to keep showing up. Moonlit is the feeling I want to bring to this part of Iron and Ivy: quiet, botanical, and a little enchanted. A moment to slow down, notice the textures of nature, and make everyday care feel more intentional. At the heart of it is something real, a loofah grown with patience and tended by my own hands. From my garden to your glow.

My first harvest is almost here, and I’m facing it without my dad. This garden holds more than what I grow. It holds everything I learned while caring for my dad full-time, including things I never wanted to learn. Caring for him changed me in ways I still can’t explain. After he passed away, this garden saved my life. I’m still grieving. I don’t have a neat ending to this story. But among the vines, with my hands in the earth, I have a sanctuary. Iron & Ivy grows from that place.”

The ritual of making: oils warming, herbs steeping, none of it was perfect, but all of it was honest. Every blend reminded me that healing doesn’t have to be loud or dramatic. Sometimes it’s just the quiet act of creating something with your own hands. What grows here doesn’t end at the harvest. It becomes something I can make with my hands and share with yours. As my first harvest approaches, there is still so much to learn, and I’m taking each step with care. This is where the garden becomes part of Iron & Ivy, and where I begin to discover what comes next.”

There were days the vines felt louder than my thoughts. Not in words, but in the way they reached, curled, and insisted on growing. They taught me that resilience isn’t a roar. Sometimes it’s just a quiet, steady reaching toward the light. The garden didn’t ask me to be okay. It gave me a place to bring my grief and still watch something grow. I’m still learning how to live without my dad and how to stand on my own two feet. I’m not there yet. It’s so hard, and I miss him so much. But here, among the vines, I have a place to be exactly where I am.”

This apothecary wasn’t built from confidence. It was built from curiosity, grief, stubbornness, and a garden that refused to stop teaching me. Through tending the vines, making blends, and finding comfort in small rituals, I began to see that the magic wasn’t only in the plants. It was also in the care I had to give, the things I could create, and the part of me that kept reaching, even when I didn’t feel strong. I’m still learning how to grow again. Iron & Ivy is part of that beginning.