How Herbs Saved Me

There was a time when I didn’t turn to herbs for physical healing.

I turned to them because my spirit was breaking.

I was exhausted. Burned out. Living in survival mode and calling it strength because I didn’t know what else to do. My body was loud—tension, pain, reactions, symptoms that didn’t make sense yet—but the deeper wound was quieter and heavier. I had lost connection to myself. To rest. To trust. To my own intuition.

Herbs were not a solution I believed in at first.
They were a reaching.

I bought my first herbs not to heal my body, but to create ritual. To feel something sacred again. To anchor myself to the earth when everything else felt unsteady. I wanted a practice that didn’t demand perfection, productivity, or explanations—just presence.

So I started simply.

I learned the plants by touching them. Smelling them. Sitting with them.
I learned that lemon balm didn’t rush me.
That lavender didn’t quiet me by force—it invited me to soften.
That rosemary asked me to remember who I was before I was tired.

Slowly—quietly—things began to shift.

Not overnight. Not miraculously.
But steadily.

As my rituals deepened, my awareness did too. I began to notice how my body responded. How stress showed up on the skin. How the nervous system and inflammation were never separate. How gentleness mattered more than force.

That’s when I made my first balm.

Not for muscles.
Not for pain.
But for skin.

My best friend was living with chronic autoimmune hives—constant irritation, flares that came without warning, skin that never truly felt safe in her own body. Antihistamines weren’t an option for her. Steroids weren’t sustainable. Everything either failed or made things worse.

I didn’t set out to cure anything.

I set out to soothe.

To create something that would support the skin barrier, calm inflammation, and not make her body feel like it was under attack. I leaned on the same plants that had already taught me how to slow down and listen. I infused oils patiently. I chose herbs for comfort, protection, and repair—not intensity.

That balm was simple. Imperfect. Unbranded.

But it helped.

And that was the moment everything changed.

Because once I saw what careful, intentional herbal support could do for real people with real conditions—not hypotheticals, not trends—I understood that this wasn’t just ritual anymore. This was practical, embodied medicine.

Two years ago this week, that path deepened.

I made my first muscle balm.

At the time, I called it Pain Salve-ation. The name was a little dramatic—but honest. I was creating relief where I could, using what I had learned by listening—to bodies, to feedback, to the plants themselves.

That balm eventually became Mystikal Muscle Rub – Original as the formula matured and my understanding grew. It wasn’t about salvation anymore. It was about support. About relief without overwhelm. About respecting pain without making promises I couldn’t keep.

From skin to muscle, the throughline never changed.

Listen first.
Move slowly.
Let the plants lead.

When my own skin later began reacting—autoimmune flares, hormonal shifts, damage from treatments that were supposed to help—I returned again to the same philosophy. I didn’t want harsh interventions. I wanted safety. Barrier support. Comfort. Something my body wouldn’t fight against.

Every balm I make now still comes from that place.

Not trends.
Not mass production.
But care, relationship, and necessity.

Herbs saved me because they gave me agency back.

They reminded me that healing isn’t about dominance—it’s about relationship.
That the body isn’t broken—it’s communicating.
That slowness is not failure—it’s wisdom.

Green Magick Apothecary exists because of that truth.

Every product still begins the same way: herbs steeped into oils, given time to do what they do best. I don’t believe in one-size-fits-all healing. I believe in listening. In adjusting. In creating remedies that meet people where they are.

Herbs didn’t just help me heal.

They helped me remember myself.

And that kind of medicine changes everything.