I thought she was kidding when she said it.
“Aloe and avocado,” Jina told me, tapping her glowing cheek. “Twice a week. No serum, no lasers. Just this.”
We were at a reunion dinner in Seoul, surrounded by women our age pretending not to compare crow’s feet. And there she was—forty-five, looking thirty. No filters. No filters needed.
I laughed. “You mean like… the stuff you eat?”
She didn’t laugh back. Just handed me her phone, already on the Notes app.
- Half a ripe avocado
- Two spoons of aloe vera gel
- A pinch of sea salt
“Leave it on for 20 minutes,” she said. “Then rinse with green tea.”
I didn’t believe her, obviously. I was deep into the retinol wars. Micro-needling. Prescription creams that peeled my skin like an orange.
But that night, in my hotel bathroom, I mashed an avocado with shaky hands. I don’t even know why. Maybe it was how calm she looked when everyone else was chasing youth like it owed us something.
The first time, I saw nothing.
The second time, my skin felt calmer.
The third time… I canceled my Botox appointment.
My husband asked if I’d gotten new makeup. My sister asked if I’d “done something” to my jawline. My daughter stole my notebook and tried it herself.
But the fourth time, something shifted.
I wasn’t chasing my 30s anymore.
I was owning my 40s.
Because for the first time in years, I looked in the mirror and didn’t see lack. I saw glow. Calm. Confidence. A woman who could walk into any room and not apologize for being there.
So when my dermatologist offered a $700 radiofrequency treatment last week?
I smiled.
And asked if she had any avocados.
What happened when my mother-in-law found the notebook… is in the comments. 👇
It was Sunday afternoon when she came over unannounced. My mother-in-law, I mean. Florence Kim. A woman who could find a flaw in a cloudless sky and make it your fault somehow.
She brought a tray of homemade mandu and her usual sideways glances.
“You look different,” she said, her eyes narrowing. “Less tired. Did you… get surgery?”
I wanted to laugh. Coming from Florence, that was almost a compliment.
“No,” I said, taking the tray from her. “Just trying something new.”
She didn’t respond right away. Instead, she hovered like she always does—picking lint off the couch cushions, straightening already straight picture frames.
Then she spotted it.
My notebook. The one with Jina’s recipe, tucked between doodles and self-reminders like “breathe” and “call the dentist.”
“What’s this?” she asked, already flipping it open.
I didn’t answer. I was too busy watching her face shift as she read.
She didn’t laugh. Didn’t roll her eyes. She went silent, which for Florence, was borderline shocking.
“Aloe and avocado?” she finally said, sitting down.
I nodded.
And then the impossible happened.
She reached into her handbag, pulled out her reading glasses, and said, “Do you have any left?”
That night, we did the mask together.
Sitting across from each other in my kitchen, two generations of women with green goop on their faces, sipping barley tea and talking about everything but aging. It was the most peaceful we’d ever been.
“Your skin feels like my daughter’s used to,” she said gently, rinsing off in the sink.
“My skin is your daughter’s,” I reminded her, laughing.
She actually smiled.
After that, she came over every Wednesday.
Sometimes she’d bring fresh aloe leaves from her garden. Other times, just gossip from her yoga class. But we always made the mask. It became our ritual.
Then one day, she brought someone else.
“Meet Hyejin,” Florence said, stepping aside as her friend walked in, clutching a tupperware of sliced persimmons. “She doesn’t believe me when I say it works.”
I welcomed her with a towel and a grin.
That night, we had three women at the table. By the next month, we were seven.
It was never meant to be a club. But word got around. Women started messaging me on Facebook, asking if they could try “the avocado thing.” Some even offered to bring their own ingredients.
And we said yes. Every time.
It wasn’t about vanity anymore. It was about connection. About reclaiming something we thought we’d lost. Not just collagen—but community.
We called ourselves “The Glow Circle,” half-jokingly. But it stuck.
I made little cards with the recipe and added a QR code linking to a Spotify playlist we made together—soft jazz, 80s ballads, Korean lullabies. Music that made us feel something.
Once, I walked into the living room to find Florence showing Hyejin how to mix the mask in a wooden bowl “so it doesn’t react with the salt.” She spoke like a chemist. Or a priestess.
We were scientists of softness. Artists of care. Women who used to feel invisible, now seen by each other in full daylight—with green faces and hair tied back, laughing about hot flashes and ex-husbands.
But then came the day I almost lost it all.
It was a Saturday. I was running late and grabbed the wrong bag—my husband’s laptop tote instead of mine. When I got to the community center, I realized I didn’t have any of the ingredients. No avocado. No aloe. Nothing.
I felt my heart drop.
I turned to leave, ready to cancel. But then I heard Florence’s voice.
“I brought extras,” she said, holding up a bag of supplies like a proud magician.
I just stared at her.
“You taught us to glow,” she said simply. “We can take it from here.”
And they did.
They set up the bowls, mashed the avocados, brewed the tea. I sat back and watched women who once called themselves “past their prime” treat each other like royalty.
That was the day I realized this had become more than skin care.
It was self-respect. Friendship. Hope.
When my daughter came home from college for spring break, she sat in on a session. She didn’t say much. Just watched.
Then, quietly, she joined in.
Later, she whispered to me, “I’ve never seen halmoni look so soft.”
I knew she didn’t mean her skin.
In May, we hosted our first community event. Not a big one—just 20 chairs, folding tables, and a whiteboard with “Aloe + Avocado” written in pastel marker.
But every seat was filled.
We taught women how to make the mask. We handed out jars with handwritten labels. We shared stories.
A woman in her 60s stood up and said, “I spent years trying to erase my age. Now I just want to honor it.”
Another said, “I didn’t recognize myself in the mirror until this brought me back.”
There wasn’t a dry eye in the room.
At the end, Florence tapped the mic.
“I used to think aging was a punishment,” she said. “Now I see it’s a privilege. If you’re lucky, you get to age. And if you’re wise, you learn to glow while doing it.”
She got a standing ovation.
Last week, we got a call from a local news station. They want to do a feature on The Glow Circle. Florence is already planning her outfit.
I’m just grateful.
Not because my skin looks younger.
But because I feel less alone.
There’s something sacred about women taking care of each other. Not competing. Not comparing. Just… witnessing.
If you’d told me a year ago that a mashed avocado and a dollop of aloe could rebuild broken trust, melt mother-in-law frost, and start a quiet revolution—I would’ve laughed.
But here we are.
My fridge always has extra avocados now.
And every line on my face?
I’ve earned it. I love it. I honor it.
So here’s the thing:
You don’t need a $300 serum.
You don’t need a surgeon.
You don’t need permission to love your reflection.
Sometimes, you just need a recipe, a friend, and a reason to believe that glow doesn’t come from youth.
It comes from care.
And if you’re reading this, maybe it’s your turn.
Try it.
Share it.
Glow.
If this story warmed your heart, share it with someone you love—and don’t forget to like this post 💚
