Humanity has always cared for the skin. Long before modern beauty aisles, before chemists emulsified water and oil into lotions, before factories manufactured creams by the thousands, skincare was simple. It was slow. It was sacred.

Herbal syrups are one of the most beloved, nostalgic, and approachable ways to welcome plant medicine into the home. Sweet, soothing, and deeply comforting, they bridge the gap between remedy and nourishment — the kind of preparation that feels like a treat, yet carries generations of old-world wisdom. Even children instinctively love syrups, which says something about their gentleness and ease.

One of the most beautiful things about herbal medicine is how plants work together. Each herb carries its own gifts — the calming touch of chamomile, the brightness of lemon balm, the earthy strength of dandelion. On their own, these herbs are powerful. But when they’re paired with others that complement or balance their actions, something remarkable happens. They begin to weave a kind of harmony, a relationship that brings out the best in each plant.

If you open any family medicine chest, there’s almost always a small tin or jar tucked away — something meant for life’s little scrapes and stings. Maybe it’s rubbed onto chapped knuckles in winter, or smoothed across a child’s knee after a tumble. These humble balms have a way of weaving themselves into our stories. They’ve been part of human care for as long as we’ve needed comfort and healing.

For thousands of years, people have turned to the plants around them for medicine, beauty, and nourishment. One of the simplest ways they did this was by steeping herbs in oil — a practice that appears in ancient Egyptian papyri, Greek medical texts, and folk traditions across nearly every culture.¹ These oils preserved the life of the plant long after harvest and provided a gentle, skin-loving way to apply herbal medicine.

A few years ago, while on my Quest with Fellowship of the Sword, I was asked a simple question: “What season are you in right now?”

When cold season hits, it feels like it’s only a matter of time before the sniffles, scratchy throats, or nagging coughs start making their way through the house. For years now, herbs have been my first line of defense — long before kids were in the picture. My wellness journey started during our fertility years, when I learned to support my body in a gentler, more holistic way.

When most people think of herbs, the first image that comes to mind is a warm cup of tea — familiar, soothing, and simple. But in herbalism, “tea” is only one of several ways we prepare plants with water, and each method draws out something entirely different.

If you’ve been around herbs for any length of time, you’ve probably asked (or been asked): “What exactly is a tincture?”

The truth is, there isn’t a single answer. Herbs are beautifully complex, and each preparation brings out a different part of the plant’s wisdom. Some methods are gentle and nourishing, others are strong and concentrated, and some are all about making the medicine more enjoyable to take.

Fall has always felt to me like an invitation — to slow down, to breathe deeper, to nourish our bodies and spirits with small, intentional comforts.

It’s a question that lingers quietly in the back of many minds: Do herbs really work? Are they simply remnants of folk tradition and old wives’ tales, or do they actually bring balance and support to the body in tangible ways?

If you spend any time outdoors in the summer, you know the drill: mosquitoes, bee stings, scratches from gardening, maybe even a sting from brushing against nettles. These little nuisances can put a damper on warm-weather fun, but they don’t have to. With a few simple herbs and remedies, you can care for your skin naturally — often with plants you can grow yourself or find just outside your door.

Elderberry syrup has exploded in popularity in recent years. Walk into any health food store in the fall and you’ll find rows of bottles promising immune support. Many families swear by it during cold and flu season, and for good reason — elderberries truly are powerful little fruits.

I was in the middle of weeding the squash patch—sweat on my brow, dirt under my fingernails, and hope tucked somewhere between the vine borers and the compost. I stood back to take it all in and felt it hit me: this will all be lush and full for maybe eight weeks.

It didn’t start with a business plan. It started with a garden—just a little sunny patch tucked into a suburban backyard. And a longing.

We often grow flowers for their beauty, but many blooms offer more than just good looks—they’re edible, medicinal, and absolutely enchanting in the kitchen.

This past week, we lost a duck. Then another. Both attacks happened silently in the night—one clean and swift, the other nearly complete. No warning, no chaos. Just feathers. A body. And the realization that something new had entered our homestead rhythm.

You might be wondering if I grow the herbs in your tea myself. The short answer? I don’t. While I do grow and forage some herbs for skincare, I don’t currently grow herbs for my tea blends. And honestly? I probably never will grow most of them—and that’s a choice made with a lot of thought and care.

Small and unassuming, feverfew grows like a wild daisy. But its healing roots go back thousands of years — and when I first learned its story, I knew: I have to grow this. Not just for beauty, not just for knowledge — but because something deep in me believed this plant was part of my healing.