The Tea That Keeps Me Coming Back

I have a tea I return to more than any other. It is not rare. It is not expensive. In fact, most people would probably pass it by without a second thought. And yet, somehow, it has become a quiet companion over the years.

I first drank it on a rainy afternoon. I had been traveling for weeks, exhausted and unsettled, and the leaves happened to be the only ones I had at hand. I brewed it without much care, poured it into a chipped cup, and sat by the window, listening to the rain tap softly against the glass.

That cup felt like home.

Since then, I have brewed it countless times. Sometimes alone, sometimes with friends. Sometimes the cup is hurried, poured between tasks, and sometimes it is deliberate, a small ritual that stretches over hours. Each time, it reminds me why I continue drinking tea even after decades of tasting the rarest and most celebrated leaves.

It is not the flavour that makes it remarkable. It is the memory it carries. The comfort it brings. The subtle sense of calm that seems to settle over me the moment I hold the cup in my hands. There is no pretense. No need to impress anyone or adhere to any rules. Just tea, quietly grounding me.

Perhaps this is why I love tea so much. It is capable of being both ordinary and extraordinary, depending entirely on how we choose to meet it. That unassuming oolong, or a simple black tea at the kitchen counter, can feel like a meditation, a pause, or even a companion when the world feels hurried and unkind.

I do not always share it with anyone. I do not always document it. I simply drink it, remember it, and return to it again and again.

Some teas are extraordinary in ways that demand attention. This tea is extraordinary in ways that do not. And perhaps that is why it has stayed with me for so long.

— Maria Tan

On tea, culture, and everyday rituals.