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MOOD & EMOTIONAL WELLNESS

Joyful Heart Tea

for the woman who needs to find her way back to herself

Sale price$20.00

Some seasons just ask more of you than you have. This tea was made for those weeks — the ones that leave your nervous system full and your heart a little heavier than you'd like it to be. Lemon balm, hawthorn, St. John's Wort, rose: plants that women have steeped and reached for across centuries of ordinary hardship, brought together in a cup that is both light enough to drink all day and rooted enough to mean something.

soft citrus · floral · a warmth on the finish · gentle on the palate

Joyful Heart Tea
Joyful Heart Tea Sale price$20.00

Joyful Heart

PRODUCT DETAILS

The Plants

There is a particular kind of heaviness that is not depression and not grief and not quite stress — it is the weight of a long season, the feeling of a nervous system that has been asked to hold too much for too long without enough softness in return. Joyful Heart was formulated for that.

At the center of this blend is the pairing of lemon balm and St. John's Wort — two plants with centuries of use in supporting emotional lightness, each working with a different quality of the experience. Lemon balm meets the nervous system's agitation; St. John's Wort works with the low, dimmed quality that settles in when the days have been heavy for a while. Together they hold the emotional range that one plant alone rarely covers. Hawthorn leaf and flower bring steadiness from the heart outward — not the heart that feels too much, but the heart that needs to remember it can bear what it is carrying. Linden and skullcap soften the nervous tension that heavy emotions always carry with them. Rose and oat straw nourish what the season has depleted.

This is a tea meant for all day, not for the single transitional cup. The herbs work gently and cumulatively. The ritual of returning to it is part of the medicine.

Tasting Notes

Tasting Notes

bright · soft citrus · gently floral · warm on the finish

Ritual Moment

Ritual Moment

a slow morning · the return to yourself mid-afternoon

Season of Life

Season of Life

every woman in a heavy season

Energetics

Energetics

uplifting · softening · quietly steadying

Tasting Notes

Tasting Notes

bright · soft citrus · gently floral · warm on the finish

Ritual Moment

Ritual Moment

a slow morning · the return to yourself mid-afternoon

Season of Life

Season of Life

every woman in a heavy season

Energetics

Energetics

uplifting · softening · quietly steadying

St. John's Wort

St. John's Wort blooms at the peak of summer — the days around the summer solstice, when the sun is at its highest and the light is most generous. In the European folk tradition, it was gathered on St. John's Day, June 24th, when the flowers were in full bloom and the hypericin inside them would stain your fingers a deep red-orange when crushed. That red has always seemed right to me for a plant associated with restoring warmth to the spirit — something in the body's chemistry, made visible.

Women have steeped and tinctured St. John's Wort for a very long time, turning to it in the seasons when the inner light dims — when the days feel shorter than they are, when the emotional weight accumulates without obvious cause. It is not a sedating plant and it is not a stimulating one. It is closer to what sunlight does: not dramatic, but organizing. Things come back into proportion.

One note worth naming honestly: St. John's Wort is an active botanical that can interact with certain medications, including SSRIs, hormonal contraceptives, and blood thinners. If you are taking any of these, please speak with your healthcare provider before including this tea in your daily practice. This is not a disclaimer — it is the herbalist's genuine recommendation, offered the same way my grandmother would have offered it.

Lemon Balm

Lemon balm grows quickly, generously, almost faster than you want it to. It spreads. It comes back. In a garden it can be overzealous, and I have always found that quality charming — a plant that insists on being present, that refuses to be diminished. The bees love it. Melissa, its Latin name, means honeybee. There is something in that sweetness that translates into what the plant does.

Lemon balm has been used to lift the spirit for as long as women have been making plant medicine. Not lift in the caffeinated sense — lift in the sense of restoring access to lightness when it has been obscured by the accumulated weight of hard days. It meets the agitation that lives underneath heavy emotions — the restlessness, the difficulty sitting still with how things feel — and offers a kind of quiet negotiation. The spirit doesn't need to be fixed. It needs to be met.

Hawthorn

Hawthorn grows at the edges of things — at the margins of fields, along hedgerows, in the in-between spaces where cultivated land meets wild. There is something apt in that for a plant that has been used, across many traditions, to support the heart in its own in-between times: the seasons of transition, the periods when the heart is full and the path forward is not yet clear.

It is the leaf and flower I use here, not the berry. The berry has its own story — rich and astringent, dense with tannins, associated with the deep winter and the body's structural work. The leaf and flower belong to the spring and the open season: softer, more accessible, carrying the heart-steadying quality without the weight. When I think of what hawthorn does for the emotional body, I think of it as the plant that reminds the heart it is strong enough. Not by numbing what is felt — by supporting the capacity to keep feeling without being undone by it.

Orange Peel

Not every plant in a formula is there for a medicinal reason, and I think it is worth saying that plainly. Orange peel is here because it makes the tea taste like something you will actually want to drink twice a day. That is not a small thing. The bitterness of St. John's Wort and the dryness of skullcap are real — left unbalanced, they push back against the palate in a way that turns a daily ritual into a chore. Orange peel softens that. It brings a round, bright sweetness that opens the flavor rather than competing with it, the way a good counterpoint in music makes the whole composition easier to receive.

In traditional Western herbalism, citrus peel has long been used as what formulation calls a "corrective" — an ingredient whose primary purpose is to make the medicine more accessible. There is no shame in that function. The herbalists who worked before us were pragmatists. They understood that a formula that goes undrunk helps no one. The peel of Citrus sinensis, the sweet orange, dried and added to a blend, does something generous: it reminds the cup that it was made for a woman who deserves something beautiful, not just something good for her.

St. John's Wort

St. John's Wort blooms at the peak of summer — the days around the summer solstice, when the sun is at its highest and the light is most generous. In the European folk tradition, it was gathered on St. John's Day, June 24th, when the flowers were in full bloom and the hypericin inside them would stain your fingers a deep red-orange when crushed. That red has always seemed right to me for a plant associated with restoring warmth to the spirit — something in the body's chemistry, made visible.

Women have steeped and tinctured St. John's Wort for a very long time, turning to it in the seasons when the inner light dims — when the days feel shorter than they are, when the emotional weight accumulates without obvious cause. It is not a sedating plant and it is not a stimulating one. It is closer to what sunlight does: not dramatic, but organizing. Things come back into proportion.

One note worth naming honestly: St. John's Wort is an active botanical that can interact with certain medications, including SSRIs, hormonal contraceptives, and blood thinners. If you are taking any of these, please speak with your healthcare provider before including this tea in your daily practice. This is not a disclaimer — it is the herbalist's genuine recommendation, offered the same way my grandmother would have offered it.

Lemon Balm

Lemon balm grows quickly, generously, almost faster than you want it to. It spreads. It comes back. In a garden it can be overzealous, and I have always found that quality charming — a plant that insists on being present, that refuses to be diminished. The bees love it. Melissa, its Latin name, means honeybee. There is something in that sweetness that translates into what the plant does.

Lemon balm has been used to lift the spirit for as long as women have been making plant medicine. Not lift in the caffeinated sense — lift in the sense of restoring access to lightness when it has been obscured by the accumulated weight of hard days. It meets the agitation that lives underneath heavy emotions — the restlessness, the difficulty sitting still with how things feel — and offers a kind of quiet negotiation. The spirit doesn't need to be fixed. It needs to be met.

Hawthorn

Hawthorn grows at the edges of things — at the margins of fields, along hedgerows, in the in-between spaces where cultivated land meets wild. There is something apt in that for a plant that has been used, across many traditions, to support the heart in its own in-between times: the seasons of transition, the periods when the heart is full and the path forward is not yet clear.

It is the leaf and flower I use here, not the berry. The berry has its own story — rich and astringent, dense with tannins, associated with the deep winter and the body's structural work. The leaf and flower belong to the spring and the open season: softer, more accessible, carrying the heart-steadying quality without the weight. When I think of what hawthorn does for the emotional body, I think of it as the plant that reminds the heart it is strong enough. Not by numbing what is felt — by supporting the capacity to keep feeling without being undone by it.

Orange Peel

Not every plant in a formula is there for a medicinal reason, and I think it is worth saying that plainly. Orange peel is here because it makes the tea taste like something you will actually want to drink twice a day. That is not a small thing. The bitterness of St. John's Wort and the dryness of skullcap are real — left unbalanced, they push back against the palate in a way that turns a daily ritual into a chore. Orange peel softens that. It brings a round, bright sweetness that opens the flavor rather than competing with it, the way a good counterpoint in music makes the whole composition easier to receive.

In traditional Western herbalism, citrus peel has long been used as what formulation calls a "corrective" — an ingredient whose primary purpose is to make the medicine more accessible. There is no shame in that function. The herbalists who worked before us were pragmatists. They understood that a formula that goes undrunk helps no one. The peel of Citrus sinensis, the sweet orange, dried and added to a blend, does something generous: it reminds the cup that it was made for a woman who deserves something beautiful, not just something good for her.

The Ritual

Practices that support the plants

Honor Yourself

Metta Bhavana

Metta Bhavana is a Theravada Buddhist meditation practice documented across two and a half millennia specifically for the cultivation of the open heart after grief, anger, or the particular isolation that comes from a long hard season. Sit quietly, close your eyes, and direct these four phrases toward yourself first, which is where it is almost always the hardest: May I be happy. May I be well. May I be safe. May I be at peace. When you have held them toward yourself long enough to mean them, extend the sequence to someone you love easily, then to a neutral person, then to someone difficult, then to all beings without distinction. The practice does not ask you to feel any particular way. It asks only that you say the words with the willingness to let them land.

Return to the body

Kum Nye

Kum Nye is a Tibetan somatic practice that works with sensation as a doorway rather than a problem to be managed. One of its simplest forms: hold something warm in both hands — your cup of tea, a heated stone, a small vessel — and let your attention follow the warmth slowly up through the palms, into the wrists, through the forearms. Not directing it, not visualizing. Just noticing where the warmth goes and where the body opens to receive it. The Tibetan understanding is that warmth carries the quality of nurturing; that in receiving it through the hands, the emotional body also learns it is being cared for. Stay with it until the cup cools.

Remember the earth

The water remembers

Across many indigenous and folk traditions, water has been understood as both purification and delight, the body's oldest teacher in what it means to be completely present. This is not exercise, not productivity, not anything the mind can claim credit for: it is wading into a creek, standing outside in the rain without an umbrella, playing at the ocean's edge the way you did before you learned to be self-conscious about it. The body in water remembers something that predates all of that, a quality of joy that does not need to be constructed or deserved, only allowed. Go find some water.

Jasmine's Note

My grandmother didn't call it herbalism. She just knew things — which plants to reach for, which roots to dry, what the earth offered when the body asked. She learned it from her father, who kept a garden in Biloxi and understood plants the way some people understand people. That knowledge passed to her, and quietly, to me.

I didn't fully understand what I'd inherited until my own body started asking questions that medicine couldn't answer. Hormonal chaos, long seasons of depression, the particular exhaustion of feeling disconnected from yourself. I remembered the whisperings. I turned back toward the plants. Everything in this apothecary came from that turning — things I made for myself first, and then for the women in my life who needed the same. I offer them to you the way my grandmother offered what she knew: as a hand extended, as something real.

-Jasmine

Rooted in Lineage. Made with Reverence.

Every formula in this apothecary is made in small batches in Los Angeles, using herbs that are organically grown or seasonally wildcrafted whenever possible. We work with plants at the peak of their potency — harvested in the right season, prepared slowly, and handled with the same reverence we hope you bring to using them.

This is medicine in the oldest sense of the word: plant wisdom, carefully tended, passed forward with care.

Frequently Asked Questions

A Note on Plant Medicine

Plants are powerful — and like any potent thing, they deserve to be used with care and knowledge. These formulas are crafted with intention, but they are not a substitute for medical guidance. Before beginning a new herbal practice, we encourage you to speak with your healthcare provider, especially if you are pregnant, nursing, trying to conceive, managing a health condition, or taking prescription medication. Wild Woman products are not intended to diagnose, treat, cure, or prevent any disease.