They aren’t closing; they’re moving. A newer, larger space about twenty minutes farther from me. In a mall.

I hesitate even writing that.

It feels like the wrong word for a place that has been cozy, familiar, and quietly special to me for the last two years.

It hasn’t been perfect. I’ve circled forever looking for parking—parallel parking, no less. Reservations around holidays could be tricky. Space was limited.

Logically, the move makes sense.

But logic doesn’t always quiet emotion.

The Queen’s Library has been my never-fail, always-comforting tea experience. I’m recognized when I walk in now—something that thrills me more than it probably should. I can sit for hours without feeling rushed. Even on a full afternoon, I’ve always felt tucked into my own little corner of the world.

This isn’t the first time I’ve struggled to let go of a place.

Just last year, my favorite home store closed. I had shopped there for years—even before I moved here. The owner and I would chat each visit, and I always left with something small and special.

I still miss that shop.

And the quiet friendship that lived inside it.

What is it about certain places that makes them so difficult to release?

I understand the practical reasons businesses close or relocate, but that doesn’t make the emotional shift any easier.

Is it the brick walls? The hardwood floors? The light streaming through tall windows?

Or is it the welcome—the familiar faces behind the counter?

On my last visit, I took a photo with Hannah, my regular server, who always seems genuinely happy to see me and who knows her teas inside and out.

Standing there, I began to wonder if the magic was never in the architecture at all.

Maybe it was always in the people who poured the tea.

I suppose I’ll find out soon enough whether intimacy travels—

or whether some places carry a kind of quiet magic that can’t quite be packed up and moved.

They never disappoint. Not once.

In the spring, though, we decided to elevate things a bit and purchased tickets to a special Easter tea at The Jefferson. With its grand staircase, marble columns, and all the holiday trimmings, it looked every bit as magical as we imagined. For this visit, I took my wardrobe choices seriously — Monica always does — and we arrived fully prepared to be wowed.

And I was wowed.

Just… not in the way I expected.

One of the biggest lessons I learned this year is simple: no two afternoon teas are alike. Not even close.

There are, apparently, rules. Both places have firm seating times, and neither allows guests to be seated early. If you’re someone who likes to arrive ahead of schedule (guilty), you’ll be waiting politely until your exact tea time.

And then there’s etiquette.

At both locations, the baked goods arrive beautifully arranged on a tiered stand — lovely in theory. I learned this year that proper etiquette suggests you don’t take an item directly from the stand. Instead, you’re supposed to lift the plate, bring it to your setting, select your item, and return the plate.

Charming idea.
Impractical reality.

Afternoon tea tables are not spacious. Attempting to maneuver a large plate without knocking over your teacup or elbowing your companion feels like a high-stakes game of Jenga. Sometimes etiquette gets you only so far.

Where the experiences truly differed, though, was the tea itself.

At The Jefferson, each guest selects one pot of tea for the entire sitting. You can request more hot water, but you’re essentially committing. Monica and I, who trade sips like middle-schoolers at a cafeteria table, managed to taste two teas between us.

At The Queen’s Library, the teas are pre-selected for the event. You’re served four different teas throughout the experience, each introduced with a brief explanation from the staff. That mini lesson — unassuming, informative, and woven naturally into the service — has become one of my favorite parts.

As a tea novice, choosing from a long menu of unfamiliar names can feel surprisingly intimidating. Having the teas selected and explained for me removes that pressure entirely. Instead of worrying about whether I’ve made the “right” choice, I get to simply notice what I like — and why.

I’ll never claim to be experienced enough to rate or rank tea houses. But I do know how an experience makes me feel. The Jefferson is undeniably stunning and well worth visiting. The Queen’s Library, though, feels quieter, more intentional — like home base.

At least for this tea novice.

I took a sip and thought, It tastes like… wine.

I remember trying so hard to detect what everyone else seemed to be experiencing so effortlessly. Was that blackberry? Maybe? Or was I just agreeing because it sounded right?

That feeling has followed me into the world of tea.

When I first began keeping a tasting journal, my entries were painfully simple:

“Subtle smell. Not sure what I’m smelling, but I like it.”

Meanwhile, tea books described “vegetal notes,” “stone fruit undertones,” “malty finishes,” and “brisk astringency.” I wanted to taste those things. I wanted to smell what others smelled. I wanted the language.

But the truth is, I’ve never had a particularly strong sense of smell or taste. It’s not the end of the world, but I suspect it’s one reason cooking has never been my passion. My mother, on the other hand, could taste a dish at a restaurant and recreate it at home. She loved that process. I’ve always admired that ability — it just isn’t mine.

And maybe that’s okay.

Tea doesn’t require eloquence to be meaningful. It doesn’t demand that I identify every aromatic family or detect precise flavor notes. Sometimes it’s enough to say, I like this. Or, This feels comforting. Or even, I’m not sure why, but this one makes me happy.

There’s freedom in releasing the pressure to perform expertise.

The more I sit with tea — without trying so hard to analyze it — the more I notice something else entirely: how it slows me down. How it anchors a moment. How it quietly becomes part of my day.

I may never describe a cup of tea in poetic detail. I may always double-check steeping times and water temperatures. But I’m learning that enjoyment doesn’t require mastery.

Sometimes tasting without words is enough.

Historically, high tea was a working-class meal, eaten at tall tables in pubs and homes at the end of the day. Afternoon tea, on the other hand, was a slower, more social affair — enjoyed seated on couches or chairs around low tables, with delicate foods and plenty of conversation. Once I learned the difference, I realized I had been doing afternoon tea all along. Who knew? I certainly didn’t.

In the beginning, I approached tea the way I approach most meals — quickly. My childhood nickname was “the vacuum,” which tells you everything you need to know. Faced with a tiered tray of beautiful food, my instinct was to eat every bite as efficiently as possible, not leaving a crumb behind.

Over time, something shifted.

Afternoon tea isn’t meant to be conquered. It’s meant to be savored. Eating a scone with clotted cream, enjoying a macaron, pausing between bites — these moments are part of the ritual. Slowing down allowed me to enjoy each tier instead of racing through them. And as it turns out, packing up leftovers is perfectly acceptable in most tea rooms. Winning an eating contest was never the goal.

I also worried, early on, about fitting in. My friend Monica loves to dress up for tea — fascinators, gloves, the whole experience. I, on the other hand, am far more comfortable keeping things simple. I worried I might feel out of place or somehow inferior.

That never happened.

Every tea room I’ve visited has felt welcoming, warm, and unpretentious. Tea lovers, as far as I can tell, are far more interested in slowing down and enjoying the moment than in what anyone is wearing. There is room at the table for everyone.

And that, more than anything, is why I’ve fallen in love with tea. Not because of the rules or the rituals — but because tea invites you to arrive as you are, sit down, and stay awhile.

I paused. How could someone like me — who still double-checks steeping times and water temperatures and is only beginning to understand the differences between black teas — be considered a tea snob? And maybe more importantly, was that something I even wanted to be?

I’ll admit, for a brief moment, a small part of me was a little thrilled. Had I ordered the kinds of teas seasoned tea drinkers usually choose? Had I unknowingly crossed some invisible line into expertise? But the larger part of me felt something else entirely — hesitation. Do I actually want that label? Is that what I’m working toward when I read tea books or visit tea houses whenever I get the chance?

I don’t think so. Learning about tea — how it’s grown, processed, and enjoyed — is genuinely interesting to me. I love talking with people in the tea houses I’ve visited, listening to their stories, and picking up small bits of knowledge along the way. But expertise, at least for now, isn’t the goal.

Now that I am well and truly a tea fan, I’ve started doing what most new tea lovers do — buying tea.
Online. In tea shops. Sometimes because I planned to, sometimes because it felt rude not to.

Along with the tea came diffusers, accessories, canisters, baskets, jars… and suddenly all of it was piled every which way across the kitchen counter. Which, as you can imagine, drove me completely insane.

Here’s the irony.

About ten years ago, I moved from Charlotte, North Carolina to my current town to help my aging parents. One of the first jobs I took after moving was as a professional organizer. I’ve always been an organized person, but that role took things a few levels up. I learned systems for organizing entire homes — kitchens, closets, pantries, you name it.

So naturally, I assumed organizing my tea supplies would be no problem at all.

What I discovered instead was this:
organizing other people’s messes is far easier than organizing your own.

When it’s your stuff — the things you love, the things you’re still using, the things you might need — every decision suddenly feels heavier. I had to slow myself down and remember the most important rule of organizing (a rule I’ve repeated to many clients over the years):

Whatever you set up has to be something you can actually sustain.

My space is limited. I have a small section of counter space and a bit of room on the island — and that’s it. No dreamy pantry. No extra cabinets. Just real life.

So instead of forcing a “perfect” system, I started experimenting.

Here’s what I’ve done so far:
• Bought a new label maker
• Picked up several tea canisters (because of course I did)
• Repurposed old jars and baskets
• Used an antique beverage carton and a wooden tray I already owned
• Purged a few teas and donated them to my office kitchen

Is it finished? Not even close.

But it’s moving in the right direction — and more importantly, it’s starting to feel usable.

I’ll share the final setup once everything is in place. For now, this is the messy middle — and if you’re staring at your own pile of tea wondering how it got there, you’re definitely not alone.

When I finally screwed up the courage to tell my friends that I was considering a blog about tea, I was absolutely stunned by the outpouring of support I received.

A dear childhood friend sent me a beautiful quilling card of a plant growing out of a teacup. An ex-teacher friend — the one who first nudged me down this path — sent me a card filled with packets of tea and a poem about drinking tea with a friend. My coworkers made me feel surprisingly legitimate by gifting me a teacup and a tea towel with my logo on them, and another offered invaluable help with my logo design.

When I finally published my first post, so many friends visited my blog and subscribed. One dear friend somehow found my post on Substack before I even sent her the link — she was my very first subscriber.

Trying new things is always daunting, and writing about them can feel even more so. What I didn’t fully consider was just how wonderful my group of friends is, and how generously they have supported me through this new chapter. They’ve made this journey feel less scary and far more joyful.

What I misunderstood before I started was how much I would need my friends — and how willingly they would show up once I finally let them see what I was trying to do.

Over the past year, we’ve visited many different tea rooms — all unique in their own way. But what anchors them all is the same ritual: slowing down, savoring a pot of tea, and sharing it with friends. Unplugging. De-stressing for a couple of hours. That, more than anything else, is what I love about tea.

Even preparing a cup of tea at home or at work gives me a moment to pause and focus on just one thing.

It’s been a year, and I’m still not especially knowledgeable about tea. I don’t always know the names, the categories, or the language that comes so easily to others. While I do know the difference between a green tea and a black tea, expertise has never really been the point.

What has changed is my curiosity.

Over the past year, I’ve noticed that I ask more questions — about the tea, how it’s prepared, and why something tastes the way it does. Not because I feel like I should know more, but because I genuinely want to understand. There’s less pressure to get it right and more freedom to simply wonder.

What I do know is how it feels to sit down, slow my pace, and share a pot of tea with someone I care about. I know the comfort of returning to a familiar place. I know the quiet pleasure of making time for something that asks very little, but gives a lot in return.

A year in, that feels like enough.

If you’ve found your own version of slowing down, I’d love to hear about it.

Fast-forward to a few years ago. I was in Orlando, Florida for a quick getaway with a fellow ex-teacher friend. Naturally, my body waited until vacation to stage a full rebellion, so I spent most of the trip sick. One morning I felt so awful that even my usual mug of beige coffee didn’t appeal. I thought, “You know what? A hot cup of tea might not kill me.”

And that was it.
No fanfare.
No dramatic music.
Just me, sick in a hotel room, drinking a humble cup of tea — and unknowingly ending my coffee era right then and there. I haven’t had even a sip of coffee since.

At first, though, I was the least picky tea drinker on earth. If it came in a box from the grocery store — Celestial Seasonings or Bigelow — into the cart it went. My beloved Bengal Spice tea bags? I would’ve followed them into battle.

But then came the day everything changed.

My friend Monica invited me to a Christmas tea at a tea house in Richmond, Virginia. I had never been to a tea house and had no idea what to expect. We walked in… and I swear I instantly became a different person. Soft music, gracious staff, cozy holiday atmosphere — I was enchanted.

And then the tea arrived.
Loose-leaf tea.
From Fortnum & Mason, no less.

I had no idea tea could taste like that. Why was this not common knowledge?! Had people been keeping this a secret from me?

But even with my newfound appreciation, something was missing:
the ritual.

With coffee, I had a whole morning routine — measuring grounds, listening to the gurgle of the drip machine, inhaling that first steamy (weak) cup loaded with half-and-half. Tea bags in the microwave just didn’t scratch that itch. It felt… anticlimactic.

It wasn’t until last year, when Monica and I visited The Queen’s Library Tea Room in Richmond, that it all finally clicked. The place is in a historic brick building downtown — warm, charming, and timeless. We sat on couches at low tables for a traditional afternoon tea, and I remember thinking:

“…Oh. Ohhhh. THIS is the ritual I’ve been missing.”

The atmosphere, the ceremony, the care — I finally understood why tea people are tea people.

And from that day on, the journey began:
teahouses, loose-leaf explorations, teaware, flights, blends, the whole beautiful rabbit hole.

And now here we are — this blog.
A tea novice’s guide to discovering joy, one teacup at a time.

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