I didn’t set out to build a beauty brand. I set out to remember. To restore. To reconnect—with the quiet power of the women who raised me, the wisdom in our soil, and the voice of my own body. 

I was raised in a home where healing didn’t come from a bottle—it came from the earth. My grandfather, Doc Fulmer, was the town’s doctor—not by degree, but by devotion. He and my grandmother treated everything from broken bones to childbirths using tinctures, tonics, and traditions passed down through generations. My childhood smelled like steeping dandelions and fresh herbs drying in the windowsill.

If you scraped your knee, you didn’t reach for peroxide. You sat in my grandmother’s kitchen while she brewed you a tea. When your belly ached, the cure was picked from the garden, not a pharmacy shelf.

At the time, I thought everyone lived that way.

But it wasn’t until I became a mother that I realized how rare—and sacred—that upbringing was.

When my daughter, Sarah, developed eczema, I remembered how my mother used to warm olive oil with herbs taught to her by her grandmother. I did the same. 

And just like that—like the click of something ancient coming home—I saw her skin heal.

That was the moment it all came rushing back:
The kombucha “babies” fermenting on the counter.
The jars of strange shapes and beautiful scents.
The truth I’d been raised on: your body knows what it needs. You just have to listen.