A childhood memory, a cleansing ritual, and the thread that connects us.
As a little girl, I was mesmerized by my mother.
I would watch her carefully as she painted her lips red, stepped into the tallest heels my little eyes had ever seen, and swayed her hips as she danced merengue with my dad in a dress that moved with her.
Her hair pin straight, falling down her back.
Her brown skin catching the light.
I remember thinking she was everything I wanted to be. Beautiful. Graceful. Certain.
I paid attention to her.
So I noticed when something felt different.
On occasion, she would leave a ponchera on the kitchen counter, filled with water and rose petals, soaking for days.
When I had enough consciousness for curiosity, I would start to wonder.
Why is that bowl just sitting there?
Are we going to eat the roses?
Are we planting them again?
My thoughts went everywhere.
And then one day, I saw her pick it up and walk it into the bathroom.
I followed her.
There wasn't much room to sneak, but she didn't send me away.
So I stayed.
I watched as she took her shower, quietly, like she always did. Then she picked up the ponchera, closed her eyes, and whispered something that sounded like a prayer.
By then, the petals were gone.
Only the water remained.
She poured it slowly over her head.
I didn't have the language for it then. But I felt it meant something.
Roses carry a softness that doesn't weaken their strength. They are delicate, but they protect themselves. They open slowly. They hold fragrance. They have been used across cultures in rituals of care and cleansing.
Quite honestly, they are emblematic of my mami, and my mamá before her.
Strong but delicate. Soft but powerful. Beautiful.
As I got older, I understood what I was witnessing was a kind of cleansing. A beauty ritual, yes, but something deeper than that.
Recently, I asked her about it. How she made the rose water. Why she did it. Where it came from.
Here she is, in her own words.
I am in love with the origin story of her beauty and cleansing ritual. The fact that this was passed down from my grandfather, whom I never met, and my grandmother, whom I miss so much. It feels like a connective thread between all of us.
For my mom, she used this ritual to call in change, love, respect, and all around positive vibes.
And for those reasons, I had to recreate it.
She poured it over herself in the shower. I turned it into a bath.
Same ritual. Just my version of it.
The Recipe
This is the version I've been using at home. Simple, soft, and meant to feel like care, not a formula.
2/3 cup powdered whole milk
This is what I use. It leaves my skin feeling soft and nourished after the bath.
1/2 cup Epsom salts
To ease tension and help the body relax.
3/4 cup dried rose petals
This is the heart of it. The scent, the softness — it shifts the entire experience.
1/2 cup finely ground oats
For extra soothing, especially when my skin feels dry or sensitive.
10–12 drops rose essential oil (in lieu of my perfume)
To deepen the scent and bring everything together.
How I prepare it
I mix everything together and store it in a glass jar.
When I'm ready to use it, I scoop a generous amount into a muslin bag and place it into the bath as the water runs. The mixture slowly infuses into the water while the petals stay contained inside the bag.
How I use it
I let the bath fill and the bag soften in the water before getting in.
Sometimes I just sit.
Sometimes I close my eyes and set an intention.
I always think about mi madre querida.
Let me know if you try it. Oh, and if you make it, use it asap! The dried milk can quickly turn.
