
I sometimes wonder if we are drinking tea or remembering something that never really happened.
A quiet morning that feels softer in memory than it ever was in real life.
A perfect cup by the window that somehow always looks better in hindsight.
A tea moment that feels cinematic, even though it probably lasted only five minutes.
We have become very good at romanticising tea.
Not in a bad way. I enjoy it too. There is something comforting about imagining that every cup could be a small pause in an otherwise messy day. That tea can turn ordinary time into something meaningful.
But I’ve started noticing a small gap between expectation and reality.
Most tea moments are not aesthetic. They are not slow, glowing, and perfectly composed. They happen between tasks, during rushed afternoons, or while we are half-thinking about something else entirely.
And yet, when we talk about tea, we rarely describe it that way.
We describe calm. Presence. Stillness. Almost like tea always arrives with a filter already applied.
I’ve done it myself. I’ve written about tea as if every cup is a moment of clarity. As if I always sit down properly, breathe deeply, and appreciate every sip.
But the truth is more ordinary.
Sometimes I drink tea while answering messages. Sometimes I forget it on the table until it cools. Sometimes it is just something warm in my hands while the day continues to move around me.
And strangely, I don’t think that makes tea less meaningful.
Maybe it makes it more real.
Because tea doesn’t need perfect conditions to matter. It doesn’t wait for the ideal moment. It simply shows up wherever you are, even if you are distracted, even if the day is noisy, even if nothing feels particularly calm.
Perhaps the problem is not tea itself.
Perhaps it is the story we keep trying to attach to it.
A story where every cup must be beautiful, intentional, and quietly profound.
But maybe tea is also allowed to be ordinary. Messy. Incomplete. Interrupted.
And still worth drinking.
— Maria Tan
On tea, culture, and everyday rituals.
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