Opening New Doors

For the past four years, my life has been shaped by caregiving—walking alongside my parents and my husband through seasons that required everything I had to give. Caregiving is holy work. It is love in action. But it is also exhausting in ways that are hard to put into words.

When you give of yourself day after day, even for the best and most loving reasons, something inside you can begin to feel hollow. There’s an emptiness that forms—not because love was lacking, but because love was poured out continuously. What I’ve come to understand is that emptiness isn’t a failure. It’s an invitation. A longing for community intimacy. A reminder that we were never meant to give without also receiving.

That emptiness can only be filled with true love and compassion—the kind that comes from people who stand in the corners of your life, quietly willing to give back. Sometimes we assume what lingers in the shadows will be dark or draining, when in reality, it may be people waiting to love us in ways we never imagined possible.

Since opening our storefront, I’ve experienced this truth again and again. Some of the most fulfilling and meaningful conversations of my life have happened sitting on the couch in the lounge, across from people who walked in as total strangers. People who carry love and encouragement in small pockets and hand it out in just the right dosage—exactly when it’s needed. There is something sacred about being seen and met right where you are.

Opening the doors of our storefront has felt deeply connected to opening the doors of my heart. Each person who steps inside brings a story, a need, a kindness, a shared humanity. And when we choose to open ourselves—to listen, to sit, to hold space—we create something healing together.

I think often about tea steeping. How it needs time. How the leaves slowly bloom, releasing warmth and goodness into the water. Healing is like that. Community is like that. When we allow ourselves to sit together, unhurried, present, and open, something gentle and restorative unfolds.

The warmth of tea entering your body feels much like the smile or simple hello of someone who walks through the door. Comforting. Grounding. Familiar, even when it’s new. And somehow, people leave not just as customers, but as friends. As part of a safe space where they are known and welcomed.

I am learning that community heals what caregiving can quietly deplete. That intimacy restores what service can drain. And that when we open our doors—to our spaces and to our hearts—we create places where love can steep, bloom, and nourish us all.