I don’t run a factory. I run a farmstead. That means if it didn’t grow, rain, or bloom, it’s not on the table.

Every salve, oil, tea, or tincture I make starts as a leaf, flower, or root I picked by hand—sometimes under the blazing sun, sometimes with mud in my boots, and sometimes with a kid or a sheep trying to “help.” That means I don’t buy ingredients in bulk from warehouses. I grow them. I forage them. I dry them on my kitchen table and stir them into oil in glass jars tucked into warm cupboards.

So yes, sometimes I run out. Sometimes the weather doesn’t cooperate. Sometimes the calendula goes feral and produces a mountain of flowers, and sometimes it sulks and I get just enough for one small batch. Nature isn’t a vending machine. She’s more like a moody old aunt with all the healing wisdom in the world—if you don’t rush her.

That’s the point.

We’re not here to crank out products for maximum volume. We’re here to make sure each item actually works. That it holds the energy of the plant, not just its name. That means waiting for the right harvest window. Drying slowly. Infusing fully. Letting herbs do their thing in their own good time.

I don’t use essential oils, alcohol extracts, or fillers. Just the plants, the oils, and maybe a touch of Vitamin E if it calls for it. That keeps the formulas simple, but it also means every ingredient needs to matter. And when you’re pulling that from the land, not a shelf, there’s a limit.

But here’s the good news: when you buy from me, you’re not just buying a product. You’re buying a moment in time. That calendula oil? It bloomed in July after a good thunderstorm. The lavender? Harvested the day before the heatwave hit. The yarrow? Picked when it was tallest and proudest, before the bees finished with it.

Everything I make is a small seasonal snapshot. And like all good moments, they don’t last forever. So when something disappears from the shop for a while, just know—it’s not gone. It’s just waiting on the earth to say “go” again.

Until then, thank you for being the kind of human who understands that the best things can’t be rushed. The harvest decides.