Co-founder and Editor-in-Chief of Vallory. Founder of Red Moon. 

There’s a quiet intensity to Alison Ferrell — the kind you don’t immediately name, but you feel. It’s in the way she chooses her words, holds her space, builds what doesn’t exist yet. It’s also in the details: long red hair that catches the light, not unlike the ideas she brings forward — bold, grounded, and wholly her own.

As the founder of Red Moon, a period care company created to bring simplicity, design, and dignity to menstrual products, she’s helped shift the conversation around what care can look like — and who it’s really for. She’s also the co-founder and editorial mind behind Vallory, a platform for women’s real stories — the ones that don’t always make it into group chats or glossy campaigns.

Her tone is quiet but unmistakable. Her instincts are sharp. And her work, whether on the page or in a product, is built to last.

This is a portrait of where she is now — steady, evolving, and unapologetically clear.

If this chapter of your life had a name, what would it be?

Becoming the Flame.

Not just chasing light, but realizing I am the source of it. This chapter is about rising from the ashes of old versions of myself — the roles I outgrew, the silence I sat in too long, the expectations I no longer carry. I’m a mother learning to mother herself. An entrepreneur building something soulful in a world that worships hustle. A woman daring to believe that wholeness — not perfection — is the real goal. It’s messy, luminous, and mine.

You get 30 minutes alone. Where are you — and what’s in your hands?

I’m on my balcony, stretched out in the sun with absolutely nothing in my hands. No phone, no noise, no agenda — just light on my skin and space in my mind. These moments are rare, but when they come, I welcome the quiet. No sunscreen, even (I know, I know). It’s important to me to sit with myself from time to time — no distractions, no input — and just listen to whatever’s stirring inside. This is where my magic happens.

Your parenting style lately, in three words:

Gentle. Honest. Evolving.

Every day, I’m learning how to hold space for my kids while still holding onto myself. It’s not about perfection — it’s about presence, repair, and showing them that growth is a lifelong practice.

Red Moon is ritual. Vallory is truth-telling. How would you describe yourself — in one word?

Becoming.

I’m not finished, not fixed, not formulaic — I’m in motion. Shedding, softening, growing. Becoming the version of myself that feels most honest, most free, and most fully alive.

One thing you’re no longer willing to explain: 

Anything — unless I want to.

I’m no longer in the business of over-explaining my choices, my process, or my path. I’m holding space for myself to learn, grow, create, and evolve — without apology, without justification. The only explanations I offer now are to myself and the people I love most. The rest? Doesn’t require an explanation.

Before Red Moon was a brand, it was a response to pain. Can you talk about your experience with endometriosis — and what it revealed about how we care for women?

What a great question. My experience with endometriosis started young — but like so many women, I wasn’t diagnosed until I was in my late 20s, at stage 4. It took years of being dismissed, misdiagnosed, and told it was “normal” to be in pain before I was finally referred to a specialist. By then, so much damage had already been done.

It made me realize just how far behind the world is when it comes to women’s bodies. Our pain is often minimized. Our symptoms are overlooked. And the systems that are supposed to care for us? They’re rarely designed with us in mind. That’s what lit the fire behind Red Moon — not just my experience with endo, but the deeper truth of how much women silently endure.

Pain, for us, is framed as part of life. Periods. Childbirth. Even beauty — we’re told — comes with pain. And while we carry all that, we’re still expected to lead, smile, mother, perform, and keep moving — all while our natural cycles and needs are ignored or erased.

What endometriosis revealed to me is this: women are not being adequately cared for — because we’ve always been the ones doing the caring. But now, we’re reclaiming that care. For ourselves, by ourselves. That is the power behind Red Moon. And that is the truth Vallory continues to carry forward.

How did living with a chronic condition shape the way you build things — especially things for other women?

I won’t pretend I had it all figured out. When I started building Red Moon, I was fueled by passion and pain — but also by naivety and the anxious desire to make it “successful.” I knew I wanted to create something different, something bold and deeply feminine, but I didn’t yet have the tools or clarity to build it in a sustainable way.

Living with endometriosis taught me how essential it is to slow down, listen deeply, and lead from a place of truth — not urgency. I realized I wasn’t here to be a salesperson. I’m here to tell stories. To open conversations. To build something that women can see themselves in — without having to perform or explain.

That’s where Vallory came in. I wanted a space where I could speak my truth and be understood — and just as importantly, where other women could find their own truth underneath the noise. A place where the light we’ve dimmed — to survive, to stay small, to fit in — could finally burn bright again.

What’s one cultural myth about womanhood that you’re actively rejecting — or rewriting?

That we have to do it all — and look good doing it.

I’m letting go of the myth that being a “good woman” means being everything to everyone: successful but selfless, maternal but sexy, strong but never too much. That myth has kept too many of us exhausted, disconnected, and doubting our worth.

I’m rewriting womanhood as something more honest. Messy, sacred, powerful. It’s not about balance — it’s about boundaries. Not about perfection — but permission. We get to define success on our own terms, and we don’t owe beauty, productivity, or constant resilience to anyone.

What’s something the branding world gets totally wrong about feminine energy?

That it’s soft or strong — as if it can’t be both.

Too often, feminine energy gets boxed into pastels, clichés, or surface-level “empowerment.” It’s either hyper-sexualized or watered down into something polite and pretty. But real feminine energy? It’s layered. It’s creative and commanding. It builds empires and holds grief. It’s intuitive, wild, nurturing, and unapologetically bold.

The branding world forgets that feminine energy isn’t one note — it’s an entire symphony. And women don’t need to be branded into boxes. We need spaces that reflect our full, complex selves — and that’s exactly what we’re building with Vallory.

What are you unlearning — not just in theory, but in practice?

I’m unlearning that I have to earn rest. 

That other people’s opinions are a measure of my worth.
That anxiety changes outcomes — it doesn’t.
That my childhood circumstances still define me.
That flaws mean failure.
That magic isn’t real — when I’ve seen mine in motion.

I’m unlearning the need to over-explain. To shrink. To strive for perfection instead of presence.
And in the process, I’m remembering: I can trust myself. I can take up space. I can be powerful and soft.

I’m not here to perform anymore. I’m here to live — fully, honestly, and in my own rhythm.

Where are you currently not performing, on purpose?

I’m not rushing to prove I’m strong, healed, or “on top of it.” I’m letting myself be tender, messy, in-process. I’m allowing slowness where I once forced urgency, rest where I once felt guilt, and boundaries where I once needed approval.

It’s not weakness — it’s radical self-trust. And choosing not to perform here is one of the most powerful things I’ve ever done.

A boundary you’ve recently drawn that quietly changed everything: 

That when a relationship no longer feels safe or supportive — no matter how long it’s lasted — it’s okay to create distance or walk away without explanation.

I’ve learned it’s not my job to keep people in my life out of habit, history, or guilt. I’m allowed to protect my peace. I’m allowed to choose relationships that reflect who I am now, not who I used to be. That quiet shift — choosing alignment over attachment — changed everything.

You co-built a platform for truth. What’s one truth that’s still hard to say out loud?

That I feel insecure — a lot of days.

It’s a new feeling for me. I used to move through the world with so much confidence, but lately, self-doubt has been creeping in. And that’s hard to admit, especially when you’ve been taught that growth requires being unshakeable.

But I’m learning that confidence doesn’t mean never wavering — it means coming home to yourself, even when you do. I’m working on rebuilding mine, piece by piece. And naming it here? That’s part of the work.

Something you used to think was weakness — that turned out to be power:

Having a hard childhood.

For a long time, I carried shame around it — thinking it made me broken, less capable, or somehow behind. But with time, I’ve realized it gave me a kind of strength you can’t fake: empathy, grit, perspective, and a deep capacity to hold space for others.

What once felt like a wound has become one of my greatest sources of wisdom. It shaped the way I love, the way I lead, and the way I build — with heart, with depth, and with nothing to prove.

Softest flex: 

Loving myself in ways no one can see — but I can feel.

Most misunderstood trait: 

I tend to share what I’ve learned — especially when it comes to health, healing, and longevity — because I care deeply. It’s how I show love: offering information, hoping it helps.

But it’s often misunderstood. Some people see it as me trying to play expert, or thinking I know more than them. The truth is, it never comes from ego. It comes from wanting the people I love to feel good, to feel empowered, to not suffer the way I have.

I’m learning that care isn’t always about offering answers — sometimes, it’s just about presence, patience, and letting people arrive in their own time.

Book that changed your posture toward the world:

I’m going to be honest — I’m a total novel junkie. I rarely read to be “educated.” I read to escape, to feel, to get lost in magic, mystery, and wildly passionate love stories.

So, staying on theme (and true to my Libra heart), A Court of Thorns and Roses cracked something open in me. It awakened this deep, almost forgotten desire — for big love, for laughter, for out-of-this-world intimacy and connection. And here’s the wild part: I manifested it.

That book reminded me that the kind of love I dreamed about didn’t just have to live in fantasy. It could live in my real life — and now, it does.

Song that sounds like your current season: 

“Get Up 10” by Cardi B.

Because I’ve been knocked down — more than once — and I still get up and come back stronger every time. This season is about grit, grace, and not asking for permission. I’m not rebuilding quietly anymore — I’m creating the life I want, on my own terms.

Underrated power move in your 40s (or this decade):

Not getting Botox.

The temptation is real — especially when you go out and every woman seems to have a perfectly smooth, expressionless forehead. But I’ve learned that choosing to age naturally isn’t about judgment — it’s about reclaiming agency.

I want to see my face move. I want to recognize myself. I want to age in a way that feels honest, not edited. That’s my quiet rebellion — not against Botox, but against the idea that youth is the only form of beauty worth preserving.

There’s power in softness. Power in letting life leave its mark — and still feeling beautiful in it.

Thing you wish you loved but don’t:

Networking events.

I want to be the person who thrives in those rooms — sparkling conversations, effortlessly connecting — but honestly? They drain me. I’d rather have one deep, real conversation than twenty surface-level ones. Give me authenticity over small talk any day.

Word that describes your home right now: 

Soft.

Fresh flowers in every room. Light textures, delicate colors, intentional beauty. After living with a man for 15 years, fully leaning into my feminine aesthetic has been quietly joyful — like reclaiming space I didn’t know I was missing.

It’s peaceful. Nurturing. A reflection of me, in this season. And while I love having my partner’s presence when he visits — and would welcome building a home together someday — I’m savoring this softness while it’s just mine.

Morning non-negotiable:

A large glass of water with lemon — before anything else.

It’s simple, but it reminds me that caring for myself doesn’t have to be complicated.

A question you’re living with lately:

Has the world lost its soul?

Some days, it feels that way. With so much suffering, environmental damage, and a culture obsessed with appearance — I wonder what we’ve traded for the illusion of perfection. We numb, scroll, inject, and consume while the planet burns and our attention thins. Even among people I love, I sometimes feel a disconnection that’s hard to name.

And yet — I still catch glimpses. In small, ordinary moments. I hold onto those as proof that soul still exists — even if we have to fight to feel it.

If your daughter or son were to read this in 10 years, what do you hope they take from it?

That their mom had values — and cared deeply about the world around her.
That living a life true to yourself isn’t just brave — it’s necessary.
That you don’t have to trade your soul for success, or your softness for strength.

I hope they see that passion matters more than performance. That joy is worth following. And that life should be lived out loud — with heart, with purpose, and with a love big enough to hold others, too.

One sentence that sums up your work — the visible and invisible kind:

I create, nurture, and hold space — in business, in motherhood, and in myself — for truth, beauty, and care to exist without performance.