A Recipe That Was Never About the Ingredients

Shopping List

Sea salt

Sage

Black tourmaline

Rose quartz crystal

Rose petals

Lavender

Chamomile

Cinnamon

Black pepper

Cayenne

Peppermint

Coffee beans

Apple cider vinegar

Aloe

Honey

Vanilla extract

I folded the list once.

Then again.

Then again, until it was small enough to disappear into my pocket.

And still, I felt like I was missing something.

Maybe not an ingredient.

Maybe a permission.

Preparation

Begin on a night when the moon is full, or when your chest feels similarly crowded, swollen with things you never agreed to carry but somehow kept anyway.

Clear the space first.

Not the room.

The part of you that keeps absorbing everything.

Burn the sage slowly. Not to banish anything external, not to chase shadows or spirits or bad luck out the window, but to remind yourself that you are allowed to decide what stays. The smoke curls deliberately, unapologetic, lingering as if it knows you have spent too long rushing past your own needs.

Place the black tourmaline nearby. Something solid. Something heavy enough to ground you when your energy starts reaching outward, reflexively, toward everyone else before checking in with yourself.

Sprinkle sea salt across the threshold, not as a barrier, but as a boundary. There is a difference.

This time, you do not need to explain yourself to anyone anymore.

No is a complete sentence.

You do not owe clarity to those who benefit from your confusion.

The Heart

Hold the rose quartz until it warms in your hand.

If it does not, wait.

Anything worth having takes time. Patience is not punishment; it is proof that you are no longer forcing what is not ready. You learned the hard way that urgency creates fractures. Now you let warmth arrive naturally, on its own terms.

Add the rose petals next. Not because love is fragile, but because you have spent too long treating tenderness like a liability. Like something naïve. Like something that had to be burned out of you to survive.

You became jaded after many moons spent trapped in a mental prison, your own worst enemy, rehearsing every reason you were not worthy until it sounded like truth.

This is not about attracting love.

You already do that effortlessly.

Higher frequencies find you. They move toward you like a current you never asked for.

This is about stopping yourself from dodging it. About noticing the walls you built so well that even you forgot they were there. About recognizing how often you barricaded yourself off from the very life you claim to want.

So you begin dismantling. Slowly. Brick by brick.

You allow yourself to receive.

Pour in honey, not to erase your sharpness, but to balance it. Sweetness was once unsafe. You learned to survive by being hard, by being alert, by recognizing that innocence could make you prey.

You made it through just fine.

Add vanilla extract, not to soften your edges, but to remind yourself that warmth does not equal weakness. That kindness, when chosen consciously, is a strength sharpened by experience, not a flaw waiting to be exploited.

You did not survive by accident.

You survived because you learned.

Now you get to choose what stays.

The Fire

Stir in cinnamon, black pepper, and cayenne.

This is for the parts of you that learned to hesitate.

For the moments you knew exactly what you wanted and talked yourself out of it. For the voice of inferiority that learned how to sound reasonable, sliding in quietly to make you second-guess, to make you doubt yourself just long enough to miss the moment.

Silence that voice.

Let the fire rise.

This is not rage; it is clarity with heat. It is the fire you buried so deeply you forgot it could warm instead of burn. The assertiveness you confused with aggression. The confidence you were told to tone down.

Ignite the spirit of boldness within.

Speak with renewed certainty.

Be decisive.

Be unapologetically sure.

Let it heat.

Let it be bold.

You are not too much.

You were simply asked to be smaller by people who benefited from your silence.

The Mind

Brew the peppermint and grind the coffee beans.

Inhale before consuming.

This is clarity, not the kind that rushes to conclusions, but the kind that pays attention. The kind that notices patterns. The kind that stops ignoring red flags just because they are familiar.

Slow down.

When was the last time you were truly present? Not planning, not bracing, not replaying old conversations in your head, but actually here?

Wake up and smell the coffee, literally.

Take a deep, purifying breath of the invigorating peppermint aroma. Feel how it clears the fog without shocking your system. How it sharpens without overwhelming.

Presence is a skill.

And you are relearning it.

Physical Release

Add apple cider vinegar, not to punish, but to cleanse.

Some things linger simply because no one ever asked them to leave.

Feel the burn. Know that this is a good burn. An honest one. The kind that courses through your entire being, detoxifying all the way down. Through old habits. Old beliefs. Old attachments that expired long before you noticed.

Apply aloe gently.

For the toughness you mistook for strength.

For the skin you thickened just to survive the heat.

There is no more need for the walls of your tough exterior. Shed the layers like dead skin. Imagine it as a chemical peel, another healing burn before the cool down.

Let it soothe.

Let it work its quiet magic.

Rest.

Rest so deeply you feel like Cleopatra in her royal tomb, transformation and rebirth held in stillness.

Burn Release

Take the shopping list and the recipe. Rip them in half. Fold them once more and place them into the candle’s flame.

Watch the paper curl. Watch it darken. Watch it disappear.

This completes the energetic closing.

Not because the work is done, but because the lesson has landed.

The Closing Sip

Steep chamomile and lavender last.

Drink slowly.

Calm yourself.

We made it here.

You did the hardest part. You faced the truth. You surrendered. You committed. You crossed the finish line without asking for permission.

There is nothing left to prove.

Let that sink in.

Sip slowly. Reflect. Embrace it.

Serving Suggestion

Serve alone.

Serve without apology.

Serve without waiting to be chosen.

If you are tempted to add more, do not.

This is not a recipe for perfection.

It is a recipe for remembering that you were already enough, long before you learned how to protect yourself.

If you want, I can stay with you until you hit submit — but this is clean, complete, and ready.

You did not rush this. You arrived.