A Love Letter To Potions

It was a hot, sticky afternoon, and we were sprawled in the park after school, debating which ingredients were best suited for our potions—carefully concocted for the bugs and ants hiding in the grass. Now, as the sun dips earlier behind the horizon, I spend more time indoors, sifting through my most nostalgic summer memories. What stands out above all is my love for potions—a love I share with generations of women and girls before me.

I remember, as a child, saving scraps from my lunch to add to the ‘food’ my friends and I were preparing for insects and birds. We’d gather around a large rock with a crater deep enough to serve as our cauldron, wielding pieces of tree bark as spoons. Then we would scatter to collect flowers, leaves, and whatever caught our eye, carefully layering each element into our magical creations. By the time our mum’s called us home, we were giddy with pride, already imagining tomorrow’s next experiment.

Fast forward to my teenage years: I find myself balancing shades of foundation, blending and re-blending until I discover a perfect match that doesn’t wash me out. By then, my vanity is a mess, a small puddle of makeup claiming the centre of my desk. I can’t help but think back to that small basin brimming with water, dirt, and leaves from my childhood. Hours spent stirring and experimenting may have seemed trivial then, but in retrospect, they were lessons in careful mixing—skills I didn’t know I’d need later.

And now, in the kitchen with my mum, I watch her pour honey, ginger, and lemon into a cup of steaming tea. She measures with care, tailoring each recipe to my needs—the same way her mother once did for her. The ritual reminds me of my childhood potions and my teenage concoctions, bridging decades of small, attentive acts of care.

Sometimes I wonder if my mum, standing over the teapot, remembers making meaningless potions with her friends as a child—or if she remembers me, hands sticky with play dough, sand, and glitter, pressing my creations into pretend cakes for her. A bittersweet wave washes over me as I picture her in my place, and I imagine the future: perhaps one day I will watch my daughter crafting potions in the park, or standing beside me in the kitchen, learning the careful, generational recipes passed down from women to women.

And I think of all the girls around the world, from countless cultures, experiencing the same quiet magic. Brewing tea to soothe a fever, mixing herbs to heal, stirring small concoctions with care—these practices have been passed through generations of women, even when they were dismissed or demonised. When people think of potions, they imagine cauldrons, mist, and witches. But women have long used spices, flowers, and hot water to nurture, protect, and care for one another. These recipes, perfected over centuries of discrimination, are treasures waiting to be reclaimed.

It’s time to reclaim the ritual of ‘potion-making.’ What was once scorned is, in truth, a sacred practice—familiar, comforting, and more relevant than we realise.

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