Tea With Honey

Some paths are quieter than others—but walking them together makes all the difference. Today reminded me of the quiet weight that comes with being the one others turn to. I spoke with both of my daughters—separately, at different points in the day. One needed advice, the kind only a mother can give when life feels uncertain. The other’s voice held something heavier, and when I asked, she let it spill: relationship strain, financial stress, the kind of ache that’s hard to name out loud. I listened. I offered what I could—words, perspective, a little steadiness. And later, I followed up. Not because I had to, but because I know how it feels to be left holding something alone. They each thanked me. They each made a move forward. And I felt that familiar flicker of peace—the kind that comes from knowing you were able to help. But beneath that peace, there’s a quieter ache. The kind that surfaces when you’re still navigating your own storm, and yet you find yourself pouring from a cup that’...

From swing disputes to teenage squabbles—sometimes you just need a grip on the situation.   They say siblings are built-in best friends. I say they're also built-in sparring partners. Whether it’s a tug-of-war over a cookie or an all-out emotional showdown over the TV remote, the sibling dynamic is as unpredictable as a toddler’s taste buds. In our house, I’ve learned that peace doesn’t come from perfect fairness—it comes from creative parenting. Exhibit A: the “hand-hold method.”  👐 The Method That Works Like Magic One day, in the middle of a loud, dramatic standoff between my kids about who touched the remote last (very serious business), I pulled out a wild card. I made them hold hands. Not just a quick grasp—I told them they couldn’t let go until they calmed down and talked it out themselves. There were groans. There were limp fingers. There may have been a few theatrical sighs. But somewhere between the awkward grip and reluctant giggles, something shifted. They tal...

Becoming a mom at 20 wasn’t the shock that people expected it to be—if anything, it felt like a natural continuation of the caregiving role I had played for years. From babysitting to helping my grandmother, watching over my disabled aunt, and even stepping in when my own mother fell ill, I had already navigated the world of nurturing long before I had a child of my own.   So when my daughter was born, I didn’t look for parenting books, unsolicited advice, or a checklist of what I was “supposed” to do. I just **knew**. The structure she needed, the comfort she craved, the way she communicated—it all felt second nature.   That didn’t mean the journey was without its challenges. My mother, ever the control freak, constantly tried to tell me how to raise my daughter. My husband? Hilariously clueless, but willing to learn (and, to his credit, became an incredible dad). And while the outside world expected me to struggle or feel overwhelmed, I never did.   This ...