Cup of Tea isn’t just a business — it’s a response to loneliness.

At a time when people were drifting further apart, I wanted to create a space that reminded us what community feels like. With my twins in middle school and hammers in our hands, we built that vision together — one wall, one teacup, one story at a time.

I never expected to become a business owner, but at 49, the dream of creating a place for connection became too strong to ignore. My first calling was as a child and family therapist, and later, as a full-time mom. Both roles showed me how deeply people need connection — to be seen, heard, and welcomed. When my kids grew older and I began imagining my next chapter, I didn’t want just another job. I wanted to build something meaningful.

Around that time, I kept coming across research on loneliness — not as a passing feeling, but as a true public health crisis. Loneliness has been linked to depression, heart disease, dementia, even shortened lifespans. Its effects can be as harmful as smoking or poor diet. That realization stopped me cold. If connection is medicine, where do people go to get it?

I started thinking about what we’ve lost over the years: the “third spaces” — the in-between places that aren’t home or work, where people gather simply to be together. For generations, those spaces included coffee shops, taverns, churches, gyms, yoga studios, and community centers — each helping people feel less alone.

But the truth is, not every space works for everyone. Coffee shops have grown fast-paced and transactional. Bars can feel limiting if you’re underage, sober, or just not in the mood to drink. Gyms and studios often focus more on the body than on conversation. Even with wonderful community hubs like churches and neighborhood centers, many people still find themselves without a place where connection happens naturally.

That’s when the image of an old neighborhood tavern came to mind — not the rowdy kind, but the one where everyone knows your name and you can lean on the counter to talk with the bartender. I wanted to recreate that feeling, but without alcohol at the center. A place where the ritual isn’t raising a pint, but lifting a cup of tea.

And so, in November 2018, Cup of Tea was born.

When you walk in today, you’ll see a glowing tree at the heart of the room, casting warm light across the tables. Behind the counter is a wall of glass jars filled with teas from around the world — greens, oolongs, blacks, whites, pu-erhs, and herbals — each one an invitation to slow down and share something beautiful. Instead of bottles on a shelf, we have leaves, stories, and traditions waiting to be brewed.

Guests slide onto stools at the bar — not for a cocktail, but for a teapot. The air hums with conversation as cups are poured. Strangers lean in, neighbors reconnect, and before long, the space feels less like a shop and more like a shared living room. Alongside the tea, there are snacks, small plates, and drinks to fit every mood — from energizing blends to soothing herbals — all designed to make you stay awhile.

Of course, just a year after opening, the world changed. When Covid arrived, disconnection became its own kind of pandemic. The very reason I had created Cup of Tea — to bring people together — suddenly became more important than ever. It wasn’t easy to hold on, but that was all the more reason to keep going.

Through every challenge, I’ve been reminded that Cup of Tea isn’t just a business. It’s a lifeline — a place to gather, learn, celebrate, grieve, rest, and belong. Every time I see someone linger over a pot, make a new friend, or simply take a deeper breath, I know the vision is alive.

Cup of Tea has become more than a shop. It’s a community living room — a sober tavern — a third space where no one has to be alone unless they choose to be.

And it all starts with a cup of tea — and the people behind the counter who are genuinely curious about the lives that pass through the door. Every person carries a story. Taking the time to notice, ask, and listen is what makes this place feel different. The goal has always been simple: to connect — one cup, one conversation, one moment of being seen at a time.

Seven years later, that mission still brews strong. Cup of Tea has become what I always hoped it would be — a place where people feel they belong.

Do the tariffs on tea today remind you of the Boston Tea Party? Because they do for me.

At Cup of Tea, we’re celebrating Black Tea Month, and it feels like the perfect time to reflect on how black tea became part of America’s story — not just as a beverage, but as a symbol of independence and protest.

Tea doesn’t grow in Britain. The tea that filled the cups of colonists in the 1700s came from China, carried across oceans by the British East India Company. Black tea — varieties like Bohea, Congou, and Souchong — was a staple of colonial life, enjoyed in homes, taverns, and social gatherings across the colonies. It was comforting, familiar, and part of a daily routine.

Then came the Tea Act of 1773, which gave the British East India Company exclusive rights to sell tea in the American colonies while keeping an import tax in place. The colonists had no representation in Parliament — no voice in the decisions that affected their lives or livelihoods. This became known as “taxation without representation.” And they’d had enough.

On a cold December night, a group of colonists disguised themselves and boarded three ships in Boston Harbor. They threw 342 chests of Chinese black tea into the water. It was an act of protest — a stand against economic control and the silencing of ordinary people. They weren’t protesting tea itself; they were protesting injustice.

As someone who imports tea today, I feel the echo of that protest. Modern tariffs can raise the cost of tea dramatically — sometimes by 20, 30, or even 50 percent. Those increases don’t just affect what’s on our shelves; they ripple all the way back to the families who grow and process the leaves — families in China, Japan, India, to name a few — who depend on fair and steady trade to make a living.

That’s our modern version of taxation without representation. These decisions are made far away, yet they directly shape the survival of small businesses like mine and the well-being of the farmers who grow the tea we all love. It’s hard not to see the same imbalance that once fueled a harbor full of protest.

Black tea has always been more than a drink. It connects continents and cultures; it weaves together hands and stories from field to cup. It carries history in its leaves — stories of trade, transformation, and resilience.

So yes — the tariffs on tea today do remind me of the Boston Tea Party. They remind me that protest isn’t always about anger; sometimes it’s about care — for fairness, for community, for the people behind what we love.

This Black Tea Month at Cup of Tea, I raise my cup to that spirit — to the courage of those who stood up, to the growers who still do, and to everyone who believes that a simple cup of tea can still make a powerful statement.