Aloe Vera

Aloe vera is a perennial succulent belonging to the Asphodelaceae family. It is characterized by thick, fleshy leaves filled with a clear gel and a bitter latex layer.

Botanically, the most commonly referenced species is Aloe barbadensis miller. This species is used in the majority of traditional preparations and modern research.

The aloe vera story likely begins in the sun-baked landscapes of the Arabian Peninsula, where this resilient succulent first put down roots thousands of years ago. As merchants traveled historic trade routes snaking through Africa, across to Asia, and around the Mediterranean, aloe vera traveled with them. It wasn't just along for the ride, though. People recognized its value quickly, and soon every stop along these routes wanted their own supply.

Fast forward to today, and aloe vera has become something of a world traveler. You'll find it thriving in warm regions across the globe, from backyard gardens in California to commercial farms in Mexico, from Mediterranean hillsides to African plains. This plant is remarkably unfussy about where it sets up shop, as long as it gets what it craves: plenty of sunshine, soil that doesn't hold onto water (soggy roots are aloe's enemy), and warm temperatures that remind it of its desert origins. 

Major cultivation regions include:

• North Africa.
• India.
• Mexico.
• Southern United States.
• Parts of South America.
  

Historical records show aloe was used in Ancient Egypt and referenced in early Greek texts. According to historical analyses published by the Smithsonian Institution (2019), aloe was considered a plant of preservation and care.

Aloe vera is valued for its naturally occurring compounds that support balance and recovery. Its gel and latex serve different traditional purposes. For example, some value it as one of the top herbs for radiant skin. 

Split an aloe leaf, and you'll find two distinct substances, each with its own chemical signature.

The clear inner gel is mostly water (around 99%), but that remaining 1% does the heavy lifting. Acemannan and other polysaccharides give the gel its trademark viscosity, while a supporting cast of amino acids and enzymes rounds out the profile. Traditional use focuses heavily on this translucent pulp.

The outer latex is another story entirely. Tucked between the leaf's tough skin and the gel sits a thin layer of bitter yellow sap, loaded with anthraquinones — the compounds responsible for aloe's historical reputation as a digestive cleanser. This is the part herbalists approach with caution.

Two layers, two completely different traditional applications. Understanding which part you're working with matters.

Aloe is also valued for its versatility. Few plants offer both topical and internal traditional uses from separate leaf components.

Aloe's traveled through countless hands and traditions, morphing into whatever form the situation demanded.

The simplest approach? Slice a leaf and apply the raw gel directly to skin — no processing, no middleman. Traditional herbalists knew this worked for dry or irritated skin long before anyone could explain why.

When fresh wasn't practical, practitioners dried the gel into shelf-stable powders or concentrated it into liquid extracts. Modern encapsulation came later, but it follows the same logic: preserve the compounds, control the dose.

Here's where things diverge. Slathering gel on skin is one thing, as people have done it for centuries with minimal drama. Taking aloe internally is where traditional systems pump the brakes. Those bitter anthraquinones in the latex aren't something you casually experiment with. Historically, internal use meant careful preparation, precise amounts, and a healthy respect for what you were dealing with.

The method always matched the goal, and the part of the plant always matched the risk tolerance.

According to the National Center for Complementary and Integrative Health (NCCIH, 2022), aloe products differ significantly based on processing methods. This affects their composition and traditional use context.

Aloe vera didn't become a fixture in traditional medicine by accident. It survived because it worked.

What makes it interesting isn't just the chemistry. It's that human beings figured out how to navigate that complexity without gas chromatography or clinical trials. They learned through trial, error, and probably some very unpleasant mornings.

Modern labs are still reverse-engineering what traditional practitioners intuited centuries ago. We can isolate acemannan now, quantify anthraquinones, run double-blind studies. But the fundamental wisdom remains unchanged: know your plant, know which part you're using, and don't get cocky with the dosage.

Aloe asks you to pay attention. That's probably why it's stuck around.