“Well, Jess,” my Grandad suddenly concludes one Friday as I hand him a mug. “If this journalism thing doesn’t work out, you’d be a great tea-lady.”

I immediately laugh because of how true it is, if only I had a steadier hand.

Gran tries to help me brainstorm opinion article ideas. “Why don’t you write one on how much you love a good cup of tea?” she suggests earnestly. It’s tempting, but probably not very interesting.

“Let’s go get you a cup of tea,” my best friend suggests when she notices I look a little stressed. Her mom bought sugar for their house after I started visiting more regularly, and couldn’t drink tea unsweetened.

It should come as no surprise, then, that when presented with the question: “How do you relax, if you don’t drink or use drugs?” that I immediately respond with “tea”

Tea and I became synonymous in my teen years, when my mental health turned my life into a rapidly deviating line of extreme highs and lows.

When nobody knew what else to do or say, they offered me tea.

I’d grown up hearing that the simple things in life were the best, but never fully understood what it meant until my life became more regulated. Now, as an adult myself, I understand the joy in the small things more than ever.

During those years where I was unwell, I couldn’t imagine a calm life where I was content, convinced that my brain would deem it “boring”, and that “boring” would lead........

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