Our Story

Nine years of illness took the life I'd planned. Four of them passed before anyone could tell me why: Lyme disease. The symptoms were and still are debilitating, work was impossible, and the future I'd imagined quietly disappeared.

The lotus blooms in difficult conditions. It grows through what should stop it, and comes up beautiful anyway. That is where the name came from, and why this brand exists at all.

Everything I'd worked for

It took all of it. Every little piece. The career, the plans, the future I'd worked towards my whole life — and most of my closest relationships too, because of how dramatically my life changed, and how dramatically I changed with it.

My old life didn't fit me anymore. I felt lost. Alone. Frightened. Useless. Invisible. Left behind. Unrecognisable, even to myself.

And underneath all of it, ashamed — of what I couldn't do, of who I'd become, of needing so much and giving back so little. Grieving a version of myself I couldn't get back, while everyone around me carried on with theirs.

The years I couldn't explain

The pain was relentless, and it moved. Some days it was my joints. Some days it was nerve pain that made being touched unbearable. The paralysis arrived without warning and left when it wanted to. And the fatigue wasn't tiredness — it was not being able to lift my own arm, or stand up, or finish a sentence.

And I couldn't tell anyone. Not properly. When your body is doing that to you, the words go too. I would try to explain what was happening inside me and nothing came out that made any sense of it, so eventually I stopped trying. I couldn't ask for help, because I couldn't name what I needed.

So I retreated. From everything and everyone. I went silent and focused on the only thing left to focus on: surviving the next hour, and the one after that.

Odd hours. Odd habits. Things that made no sense to anyone watching. From the outside it looked like I had become someone else — and I had. But every strange thing I did was just me trying to get through the day and find one small piece of comfort in it, physical or otherwise.

Four years of that before anyone could tell me why. No diagnosis. No explanation. Nobody who could tell me what was wrong or what to do about it. I was left to work it out on my own.

At twenty-four, I was told my body was shutting down, that I didn't have much time left, and that there was nothing more anyone could do. But nobody could tell me why.

Lyme disease isn't officially recognised as something you can catch in Australia, so for years nobody thought to test me for it. It wasn't until I was twenty-seven, and seeing a second naturopath, that anyone worked it out. A blood sample was sent to a laboratory in Germany, and it confirmed what she'd found: Lyme disease.

For years I couldn't put words to my own actions, or to why I'd become someone the people who loved me didn't recognise. That was hard for them, and I understood why.

Trying to go back

For a long time I kept trying to pick the old life back up. I'd push at it, and every time it pushed back harder — and I'd end up more unwell than before.

Twenty-four hours

The sixth time I tried to put my old life back together was the last.

I went into hospital thinking I'd be there a day — long enough to stop the vomiting and get some fluids in. They told me I was staying a lot longer than that.

Six and a half weeks, to be precise.

One of nine tumours had wrapped itself around my bowel, and it had burst. Sepsis. For five days my body refused every antibiotic they tried, and I got worse with each one.

It was during Melbourne's lockdown, so nobody was allowed onto the ward. The one thing they permitted was five minutes downstairs in the public cafeteria.

I couldn't walk by then. I'd get myself into the wheelchair and use every last piece of strength I didn't have to wheel down there — just to sit with the people I love for five minutes, in a room full of strangers.

I didn't know it then. But those were the most important five minutes of my life.

I was twenty-nine. I had just finished the course I'd gone back to study, and I'd been approved for the job at the end of it — a new career, a fresh start, the thing I'd been working towards while I was unwell. My first day was the following morning.

Instead I rang my employer from a hospital bed to tell him I couldn't take the position.

I thought I had already hit rock bottom. I hadn't. Not yet. It was still around the corner.

On the fifth day the doctors told me they had done everything they could, and gave me twenty-four hours. They told me I would not see the people I love again.

That was rock bottom. Not the pain. Not the years. Not the job. Hearing those words, in a room nobody was allowed to come into.

Then I had to ring the people I love and tell them myself. That those five minutes downstairs had been the last five minutes. That we were not going to see each other again.

It isn't something anyone ever thinks will happen to them. And yet it was happening, and I was the one who had to say it out loud.

And then the ninety-year-old woman sharing my room got out of her bed and put her arms around me.

She was frail. She should have been resting. She held me anyway, and she kept holding me, and she sat with me all night. Neither of us slept. She just stayed.

Nobody was allowed in to see me. But I wasn't alone.

I had come close to losing my life before. This was different. This was the one that pushed me over the edge and made me realise, finally, how much I wanted to live.

For years I had prayed for the opposite. It had been unbearable for so long that I wanted it to be over. And then, in that room, I wanted to live — properly. A full life. Joy. Peace. My people around me. A body that worked the way it was meant to.

So that night, with her beside me, I prayed. And I made a promise: that if I was given more time, I would use it to do some good. Not just for myself — for as many people as I could reach. I knew exactly what it felt like to need something and never receive it, and I promised that whatever I did with the rest of my life would be in service of other people. Helping. Sharing what I knew. Supporting.

The next morning they drew my blood, and the doctors on shift couldn't believe what they were looking at. The improvement overnight was drastic — more than they had seen before. So they drew it again. Five times, to be certain. Every result came back the same. The infection was leaving my body.

In the years before I got sick I had gone from believing in God to doubting he was there at all. That morning I was certain. He heard me, and he answered. It is the most memorable thing that has ever happened to me.

Being guided

The answer came that morning. The healing took a great deal longer.

The tumours still had to come out, but I wasn't strong enough for surgery — not close. It took two years of slowly rebuilding my strength before my body could survive the operation. Two years of working towards being well enough to be made unwell again. Then the surgery itself, and another hard recovery on the other side of it.

None of it was quick, and none of it was easy.

Something else began in that time, too. I started receiving guidance in my sleep — clear, specific, unmistakable. Which practitioners to see, and which ones weren't for me. Which direction to take next. It confirmed that the naturopathic path I'd been on since I was twenty-four was the right one, led me to the practitioners who helped, and eventually to studying herbal medicine properly. Then to smaller things: the ordinary decisions of an ordinary day.

The more I paid attention and followed it, the better I became. That is when the healing really started. And I have never felt alone since, or lost. I finally had direction, and I could see what it was doing for me and for my life — so I kept following it.

It led me to Lotus. And Lotus led me to you.

The quiet years

Along the way, I became obsessed with nature. I desperately wanted to understand how it worked, and all of its magic.

For legal reasons I can't make claims about the products I sell. But I can tell you about my own experience.

Back at twenty-four, when the doctors had nothing left to offer, I made the choice to try something different and began working with a naturopath. Slowly, I started to improve, in more areas of my life than I can count. And the more I healed, the more I needed to understand. How did this work? Which botanical was helping me? Where did it come from? What were its benefits? How was it made? And why was this whole world so often dismissed?

My curiosity multiplied.

What began as curiosity became years of formal study — herbal medicine, apothecary practice and botanical formulation — alongside everything a classroom doesn't teach: plant oils, ingredient quality, and the patience to get a blend right.

My kitchen slowly turned into an apothecary — amber glass bottles, jars of dried herbs, handwritten notebooks and endless experiments. Every batch taught me something. Every formula became a little better each time.

Doctors gave me months. Herbalism gave me a purpose.

Something to learn. Something to make. Somewhere to put myself, when everything else had been taken.

Coming back

After all those silent years, I finally started to heal. And with that came the words — I could explain things at last, to the family and friends who had understood my disappearance and waited.

Lotus's roots keep getting deeper and stronger, and so do mine.

Each day I feel better than the last, because I'm finally where my body needs me to be. My mind restored. My spirit alive. My emotions better than they have ever been. I have honestly never felt better than I do right now, writing this for you — and I can't wait to start sharing what I know, and what I make, with you.

Who this is for

I know who I'm making this for, because I was her.

For anyone whose body stopped behaving the way it used to, and who is tired of being told to relax. For skin that has become reactive and unpredictable and no longer responds to whatever used to work. For people carrying something heavy — illness, grief, exhaustion, a stretch of life that is asking too much — who have stopped putting themselves anywhere on the list.

For the ones who give everything away. The mothers, the carers, the person everybody else leans on, who is always the last thing they get to and usually doesn't get to at all.

For anyone who has been let down by things that promised a great deal and delivered nothing, and has become quietly suspicious of the whole industry. I understand that completely. I would rather tell you exactly what is in the bottle and why than make you a promise I can't keep.

For people who have been unwell long enough that comfort matters more than novelty. Who want something predictable. Something that behaves the same way every single time, when very little else does.

For anyone who has looked at their own reflection lately and not quite recognised the person looking back.

For the person who has started paying attention to what they throw away, and is tired of buying something lovely and putting most of it straight in the bin.

And equally, for the person who simply loves a little luxury in their day. Who notices when something has been properly thought through and properly made, and who would rather own one beautiful thing than five ordinary ones. You don't need a reason. Wanting something lovely is reason enough.

For anyone who simply wants ten quiet minutes that belong to them, and something beautiful to spend them on.

Because that is really what this is. Not a fix, and not a transformation. Ten minutes where the only thing being asked of you is to stand still and breathe while something warm goes onto your skin. A door that closes. A bath that takes as long as it takes. Nothing to achieve and nobody to be.

You don't have to be unwell to want that, and you don't have to earn it. But if you are unwell, I want you to know these were made by someone who understands what it is like to have a body you can't rely on — and to want one thing in your day that is gentle, predictable, and entirely yours.

What's in the bottle, and what isn't

I would rather tell you exactly where things stand than give you a list of claims. So here it is.

Vegan and plant based, without qualification. No animal products, nothing animal derived, nothing tested on animals. Not in a single product, not in one ingredient. That will never change.

Animals aren't needed for any of this. Not one ingredient, not one test. That so many large companies still do it makes me angry — I love animals, and that was never what they were put here for. We can do better than this as a society, and there is no reason at all for a business like mine not to lead the way on it. I hope it helps pave the way for many others to follow.

Organic wherever I can get it. Where a certified organic version of an ingredient exists and I can source it, that is what I buy, and I would rather pay more for it than not. Some botanicals aren't available certified, and where that's the case I choose the cleanest, best-grown option I can find and I'm happy to tell you which is which.

Bought Australian, always. Every ingredient is purchased here in Australia, from Australian suppliers and small Australian businesses — never imported directly to shave a few dollars off the cost. Some botanicals simply don't grow in this country; frankincense has never come from anywhere but the Horn of Africa and Arabia. But the people I buy from are local, and that matters to me.

It does cost more. But I would rather keep mine — and your hard-earned money — here, supporting other hardworking Australians.

No preservatives where none are needed. The oils, butters and scrubs contain no water at all, which means nothing can grow in them and no preservative is required. Those are genuinely preservative free, and they always will be.

Anything with water in it is different. A mist or a toner will grow bacteria and mould without a broad-spectrum preservative, and there is no natural exception to that — not hydrosols, not vitamin E, not anything. So those products contain one, chosen to be as gentle as it can be and approved for certified natural cosmetics. I name it on the label rather than burying it, because you're spraying it near your eyes and you deserve to know.

And a handful of actives are made in a laboratory. Ectoin, bakuchiol, niacinamide and panthenol are synthesised. They are also among the gentlest, best-studied and most effective ingredients available anywhere, and I use them because they work — not because they sound natural. I would rather give you something that does what I said it would than a shorter ingredient list that doesn't.

What you won't find

No parabens. No sulfates. No phthalates. No silicones. No PEGs. No mineral oil, paraffin or petrochemicals. No formaldehyde releasers. No beeswax, honey, lanolin or milk. No synthetic fragrance or parfum — every scent here comes from botanicals. No artificial colours — the colour comes from clays and from the ingredients themselves. And no microplastics: the scrubs exfoliate with sugar, never plastic beads.

Every single ingredient, in every product, is listed on the label. Nothing hidden behind “fragrance” or “proprietary blend”. If you want to know why something is in there, ask me — I'll tell you.

Working towards plastic free

Plastic is the harder one, and I want to be straight with you about where it stands.

I am aiming for one hundred per cent plastic free, and in most places I have already got there. Glass, paper, packaging designed to be kept or recycled rather than binned. But there are still a few components where plastic is the only option available, or where the alternative costs more than a business this size can carry yet. I'm working on those. Finding new ways around them is one of the things I think about most.

So I won't tell you we are plastic free, because we aren't — not yet. What I will tell you is that it's the goal behind every creation and every packaging decision I make, and that it gets a little better with each batch. When we get there, you'll be the first to know.

How I make things

I learned early that exceptional skincare isn't about using the most ingredients — it's about choosing the right ones. Every ingredient must have a purpose. Every botanical must earn its place. And anything I wouldn't want on my own skin doesn't go in.

Over time, family and friends began asking if they could take a bottle home. Then they came back for another. What I'd made out of necessity had quietly become something that brought comfort to the people around me.

That was when I realised I wasn't making products. I was making rituals.

Today that's facial oils, mists, butters, scrubs, soaps and bath bombs, with more joining as each formula earns its place. Everything is formulated and made by hand, by me, in small batches in Melbourne.

How a batch is made

Nothing here is mixed and bottled the same day.

The frankincense in the Firm & Lift Face Oil starts as whole resin, sitting in jojoba for six weeks before it's strained. You can't rush it. Heat it to speed it up and you lose the top of the scent and half the reason you infused it in the first place. So it sits, and I wait, and I check it.

Most formulas take between two and eight attempts before I'll make them for anyone else. Not because the first version was bad — usually it was fine. Fine isn't the point. The last version is the one where the texture is right, where it's solving more than one problem at once, where the scent has settled, and where it still does what I said it would three weeks after you opened the bottle rather than only on the first day.

A batch day starts when the sun does. First I check and shake every infusion. Then the soap — four to six weeks curing in moving air, turned and checked until the bar is hard enough to be worth your money. Then testing: new ingredients, new formulas, worn on my own skin for weeks at a time to see whether anything irritates and what actually improves. I keep working at a product until it earns its place several times over, because I'd rather give you one thing that does four jobs beautifully than four things that each do one.

Then the rest of it. Products I've been planning for weeks or months finally coming together. Packaging designed so it can be reused or recycled rather than thrown away. Filling, labelling, and getting each parcel right.

Most days I look up and it's three in the morning and I genuinely can't believe it. I'm too far inside what I'm doing to notice. A sixteen-hour day feels like six hours on a hobby. It has never once felt like work.

This little thing is mine, and it makes me happy. I hope it makes you happy too. I'll be sharing much more of it on social media — videos and tutorials, so you can watch your favourites being made.

Every batch gets a number and a date, and I keep a record of every one: what went in, which supplier it came from, what the batch weighed, what it smelled like when it was finished. If something is ever wrong, I can tell you exactly which batch it came from and what was in it.

That isn't a luxury. That's the minimum I'd want from someone making something I was going to put on my skin.

What guides every batch

Choose quality over quantity.
Choose craftsmanship over convenience.
Choose ingredients with purpose.
Choose rituals over routines.

Nothing is rushed. Nothing is made to follow a trend. Luxury is found in intention, not excess.

What I'd tell you if you asked

I promised to share what I've learned. So here is some of it, freely, whether or not you ever buy anything from me.

Oil goes on damp skin, not dry. This is the one most people get wrong, and it's the difference between an oil that works and an oil you decide isn't for you. Applied to dry skin, a facial oil mostly sits on the surface. Mist first, don't wait for it to dry, then press the oil straight in. The oil holds the water against your skin — that's the whole job.

Press, don't rub. Rubbing drags at your skin and pushes most of the product to the edges of your face. Warm three to five drops between your palms and press them in. That's genuinely all you need. More isn't better, it just sits there.

Fewer ingredients, chosen better. A long ingredient list is usually a marketing decision rather than a formulation one. Most skin does better with a short list of things that each have a reason to be there.

Anything with water in it needs a preservative. There is no natural exception to this. Not hydrosols, not vitamin E, not grapefruit seed extract. If someone is selling you a water-based product and telling you it's preservative free, it will grow mould — the only question is whether you'll see it before you use it.

Give something six weeks before you judge it. Skin turns over roughly every four weeks, and most botanical actives work with that cycle rather than against it. Four days tells you how something feels. Six weeks tells you what it does.

Store your oils away from heat and light. The bathroom windowsill is the worst place in the house. Rosehip, sea buckthorn and anything golden will oxidise quickly in the sun, and an oxidised oil is no longer doing what it was meant to. A drawer beats a shelf.

Patch test properly. A small amount on your inner forearm, then wait a full twenty-four hours. Most reactions don't show up in the first ten minutes, which is when most people decide they're fine.

Nature usually has an answer — but you have to earn it. After years of studying this, what strikes me most is how much is already out there in the plant world, and how little of it is quick. The answers are rarely the dramatic ones. They're the slow, unglamorous ones: the right oil for your skin rather than the trendy one, six weeks instead of six days, one thing done properly instead of ten things done hopefully.

So when something isn't working, look to nature before you look for the next new thing. A cup of chamomile at the end of a hard day. Warm oil worked into tired hands. A long bath with magnesium salts and essential oils instead of another hour on your phone. None of it is dramatic, and all of it helps more than you'd expect. Plants don't rush, and they don't work for people in a hurry — but they're there for you, waiting for you to notice them.

And the one nobody selling skincare wants to say out loud. Sleep, water and stress will do more for your skin than any product I make. I say that as someone who sells the products. Everything here is meant to support what your body is already doing — not to stand in for rest you haven't had.

My promise to you

My dreams for Lotus are big, and this is what I promise goes into every batch and every parcel that leaves here: love, care, peace, patience, honesty, and attention to every last detail.

Wellness isn't about perfection. It's found in the quiet moments — the first deep breath before the day begins, a facial oil warmed between your palms, a candle lit as the evening grows still. Small rituals that ask you to pause in a world that rarely does.

You can only give your best to the people you love when you are at your best. These rituals are here for exactly that. Your full potential is waiting.

I'd love to hear from you

If Lotus becomes part of your rituals and it makes a difference to your days, please tell me. Leave a review, or email me directly — I read every one. Hearing what these products do in someone else's life is the whole reason I started.

Thank you for supporting a small Australian business built on resilience, craftsmanship and purpose. I'm truly honoured you're here.

With care,
Stephanie

Completed studies in herbal medicine, apothecary practice and natural cosmetic formulation.

New batches are small and go quickly. I'll let you know when one's ready.