Tonight, like many other nights, I sit at my dining room table and sip my steaming tea. It’s been a long, hard day—just like many others. The Life in a wheelchair brings challenges that can make each minute seem longer than it should. Simple tasks are no longer simple. I’ve had to ask my spouse several times today to pick things up from the floor or help me with small chores that used to take no thought at all. It’s frustrating, humbling, and sometimes heartbreaking.
Because of my hearing loss, conversation has become a chore. I hate having to ask people to repeat things over and over, and my poor husband gets tired of repeating himself. Sometimes it’s easier just to stay quiet. But I miss conversations—the laughter, the easy flow of words, the feeling of belonging.
Tonight, I got dressed and attended a little deck party a few doors down. There were maybe fifteen people there. It was a pretty evening, and it was nice to see my neighbors, but between my hearing struggles and worrying about being too far from the bathroom, I couldn’t relax. I was relieved when we left early and came home. I slipped into my nightgown, settled into my recliner, and felt peace again.
Then the coughing started. Each cough sent a sharp pain through my abdomen and lower back. So, I decided it was tea time—again.
Right now, I’m sipping on mullein tea, hoping it soothes my cough. (read more about mullein tea benefits)I wish I could lie in bed without pain, but I’ve learned that after a couple of hours on my side, my spine feels crooked, and I have to get up again. Of course, that means another bathroom trip—and I pray I don’t have an accident trying to transfer from bed to chair. When that happens, it’s hard not to feel defeated.
But here, in the stillness of the night, my tea in hand, I find peace. Looking out the window into the dark, I let my thoughts drift toward hope. I imagine a better world—a body made whole again, freedom from the chair, ears that hear the birds sing once more. I see myself walking my little rescue dog, playing with him, giving him silly baths. I imagine learning racquetball with my husband, visiting my kids and grandkids, maybe even painting again—brush in hand, tea nearby.
So this quiet tea ritual becomes more than comfort. It’s therapy for the soul. Each sip reminds me that even when life feels small or broken, there’s beauty to be found in small acts of care. My tea gives me permission to dream, to hope, to keep going.
Now, as I finish this cup, I’ll move to my recliner with a lemon cough drop and some water. Maybe I’ll get a few hours of sleep. Maybe not. But for now, this tea has given me something even better—a few moments of calm in the darkest of times.
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Key Takeaway
Even in pain and difficulty, small rituals—like making a cup of tea—can anchor us, soothe our spirits, and remind us that hope is still brewing quietly within.
– Shirley
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