Meet the friend behind the boxes.

I grew up in foster care. Different houses, different rules, different versions of what "home" was supposed to mean.

When I was young, I met an herbalist — I honestly can't even remember how we met, but she didn't try to fix me or fill out a form about me. She just kept showing up, and she kept taking me outside.

We walked the same tree lines and valleys for years. She taught me how to forage nettle and not get stung, to tell yarrow apart from its look-alikes, to slow down enough to actually see what's growing at your feet.

Herbs became the one thing that felt like mine. Not assigned to me. Not temporary. Not waiting to be taken away. Just mine.

That relationship carried me through my twenties. Through leaving the system. Through figuring out who I got to be once nobody else was deciding for me.

Then I had my first baby, back to back with my second, and I lost the thread completely.

Postpartum didn't just take my sleep. It took my sense of myself. I was running on empty for so long that I stopped remembering what steady even felt like.

What eventually brought me back was the thing that had always brought me back: herbs. Slowly, blend by blend, I found my way to steady again. Nettle for depletion. Oat straw for a nervous system running on empty. Tulsi and motherwort for the days I couldn't bear.

I started making tea for myself first. Then for a friend who'd just had a baby. Then for a friend who was grieving. Word began to spread — not because of clever marketing, but because someone felt better and told someone else.

Your Friend Hanna exists because of two things that happened to me: a woman who taught me to trust myself and the plants, and a season of motherhood that nearly took me from myself but left me able to help other mothers through their own.

I don't think anyone should have to find their way back to steady alone. That's what every box I build is for, whichever moment it's built around — postpartum, loss, or something in between that only a custom note can name.

Something someone can hand another woman and say, without needing the perfect words: I see what you're going through. Let this help.