When I was younger, one of my favorite activities was making “magic potions.” Cherry-scented shampoo, vanilla perfume, and hand soap were not exactly mystical substances, but when paired with the unlimited imagination of a couple of 9-year-olds, possibilities were endless. Sitting on a bathroom floor, we created an entire collection of mixtures, each one carefully crafted with a purpose.
We obsessed over every detail down to the texture, the swirl of color, the combination of scents. Some potions were designed for happiness, others for confidence or beauty. A few were more ambitious, meant to solve our inability to fly or turn invisible. In our minds, every problem had a solution if only we could find the right ingredients to mix together.
There was something endlessly fascinating about the transformation of ordinary household products into imagined remedies. I loved the sense of secrecy and power it gave me — the idea that I could combine things, label them, and suddenly possess solutions. To “cure it all” with something I had created myself, then proudly share it with everyone I knew, convinced that my mixtures alone could take on anything.
This memory came to mind unexpectedly in my organic chemistry lab, as my friend and I geeked out over successfully completing our Grignard reaction, and I felt a strangely familiar sense of excitement. Once again, I was captivated by the idea that simple components could combine to produce something intricate, complex, and meaningful.
Over the years, I’ve learned that I can’t simply decide my potions will work. Things are, as it turns out (shoutout Orgo Exam 1), far more complicated than my childhood self assumed. Scientific understanding has now replaced my belief in magic, yet it’s the feeling that somehow remains the same.
Before we began absorbing everyone else’s definitions of who we should be, there were our childhood passions — the interests untouched by pressure, comparison, or practicality. As we grow older, the quiet judgments we encounter often make us question whether what we love will ever be “enough” to build a life around.
Somewhere along the way, we forget about how it feels to be purely fascinated with our passions.
In its place came overthinking, doubt, and the exhausting spiral of needing to police our own interests. Although it feels mature to prioritize numbers and salaries, a life based purely on practicality can end up feeling far less logical than we expect.
I’ve started to realize that some answers lie in the past. In revisiting the things that once captivated us, we might rediscover the clearest evidence of what genuinely filled our cup.
I’ve learned that the magical part of my magic potions was never really in the mixtures themselves — it was in the curiosity, joy, and sense of possibility our childhood selves envisioned for us.
Our younger instincts often spoke more clearly than we give them credit for, quietly hinting at the passions and purposes we once felt drawn towards, but that later feel so complicated to define.
Maybe I can’t cure the world with cherry shampoo and vanilla perfume anymore. But through patience, persistence, and yes, a few failed reactions, I still hope to spend my life doing what I’ve always loved — creating, discovering, and believing that something I make might one day make a difference.
