How Tea Saves the Day

Today’s tiny painting is two teacups stacked, and if there were ever a portrait of my personality, this might be it.

I love tea.
Not I’ll drink it if there’s nothing else tea.
I mean love-love-love tea.

Hot tea. Cold tea. Herbal, cinnamon, spicy, soothing, dramatic tea. If it steeped in hot water at some point, I’m interested. Coffee and I are friendly strangers who politely nod at each other from across the room, but tea? Tea and I are fully committed.

My favorite is a hot cinnamon tea with honey—the kind that feels like it’s giving you a pep talk and a hug at the same time. I’ll share the link because if something makes life better, we pass it along.

So why the teacups today?

Because tea is comfort.
Tea is recovery.
Tea is what you drink after life humbles you in public.

Which brings me to New Year’s Eve.

A few nights ago, we were in our coastal beach town in Florida with dear friends. The kind of night you circle on the calendar. My college roommate and her husband were visiting. My husband loaded up the golf cart like a professional event planner—chairs, snacks, drinks, and two of my favorite quilts, because he knows me and also because he is wise.

We were headed to watch a yacht rock band by the ocean. Yacht rock! All out 80s music. Live music! New Year’s Eve! What could possibly go wrong?

Well.

I wanted to look cute.
This was mistake number one.

Looking cute on a chilly coastal night requires layers. Lots of layers. An undershirt. A T-shirt. A sweatshirt. A coat. Gloves. Basically, I looked like I was preparing to summit Everest but with better intentions.

Still, I wanted to feel festive, so I showered before we left. I was confident my hair was dry. It was… not.

About an hour into the yacht rock band—right as everyone else was settling in and living their best smooth-sailing, Sailing by Christopher Cross fantasy—I realized something terrible:

I was freezing.

Not “oh it’s a little chilly.”
I mean why can I see my breath and hear my teeth chattering over the saxophone cold.

Add in the fact that I’m taking a medication that makes me feel cold anyway, and suddenly this warm-blooded Texas girl was no longer enjoying coastal vibes. I was surviving them.

Friends were cozy. Quilts were deployed. The band was great. The night was young.

And me?

I was the party pooper.

I was the reason we all had to leave.

There is no dignity in shivering through yacht rock while trying to pretend you’re fine. Eventually, you have to admit defeat, gather your blankets, and head home with as much grace as possible—which is to say, muttering apologies and promises to make hot tea for everyone.

And that’s exactly what I did.

Which brings me back to these two teacups.

They’re stacked because sometimes comfort comes in layers.
They’re small because the things that restore us usually are.
And they’re empty in the painting because they’re waiting to be filled—preferably with something hot, cinnamon-scented, and sweetened with honey.

This tiny painting is a reminder that it’s okay to call it early.
It’s okay to need warmth.
It’s okay to choose the cozy option over the cute one.

And sometimes, the most celebratory thing you can do on New Year’s Eve is go home, wrap up in a quilt, and pour yourself a cup of tea.

Or two.

Here’s to tiny paintings.
To good friends.
To husbands who pack quilts.
And to knowing exactly what warms you back up—inside and out.

Cheers (with tea),
Sherri