Column: The journey of Mr. Aloe

{Photo Credit: Antionette Kerr}

There’s a weary gentleman perched on my windowsill. His name is Mr. Aloe, and he’s seen some things.

He came into my life as a birthday gift a few years ago—a sturdy little guy with bright green arms and a “you-can’t-kill-me” kind of confidence. He was perfect. Low-maintenance, healing, quietly loyal. A plant that didn’t ask for much, just like me at the time.

Then life did what life does—it shifted. Hard.

In the middle of a personal pivot, I moved out of a house and into uncertainty—literally. I lived in my car for a while—just me, a few essentials, and yes, Mr. Aloe in the back seat, seatbelted in like a trooper. We even went on a solo camping trip together. I read a book while he sunbathed. It was unconventional therapy at its finest.

But let’s be honest—Mr. Aloe didn’t thrive during those nomadic months. His leaves grew limp, dusty, and cracked at the edges. He became what I lovingly called crispy around the soul. And honestly? Same.

When I finally landed in a more rooted place, he was still hanging on. Barely. And so was I.

Enter my garden angels.

Patsy Matthews—wise in both soil and spirit—handed me a bag of rich, living dirt like it was medicine. “For the succulents,” she said, and I knew she meant for the parts of me that were still trying to grow. Patsy doesn’t just nurture plants—she nurtures people.

And then there’s Kivi, who’s out here reimagining her garden like she’s starring in her own HGTV reboot. Watching her rip out the old and plant something new inspired me to believe that transformation is possible, even if it starts with dirt under your fingernails and a broken-looking plant in your hand.

So, Mr. Aloe got repotted. New soil. A cool new spot. A little less judgment, a little more grace. He’s not perfect. Still a bit sad. Still a little crispy. But upright. And healing.

Just like aloe is meant to do.

Aloe vera is more than a pretty plant. It soothes burns, cools inflammation, and purifies the air around it. It’s a quiet healer. A survivor. A metaphor wrapped in chlorophyll.

So here’s to Mr. Aloe, who reminds me that even when life gets wild—when you’re car-camping your way through a transition, when your leaves are droopy and your pot feels too small—you can still make a comeback.

All you need is a little sunlight, a good repotting, and some friends with gardening tools and big hearts.