Tea for Two: Generational Hope and Healing
As a child my chest would swell with excitement when I was lucky enough to find another discarded teacup on an end table, coffee table or the kitchen counter. My mother was known for pouring herself tea multiple times a day only to leave the half full and forgotten mugs scattered throughout the house. I looked forward to tasting the floral zest of the earl grey as the cold liquid trickled down my throat. The discarded tea was a way for me to feel included in my mother’s life. To feel that she thought of me or even loved me. My body and soul would feel nourished as my belly filled with the abandoned liquid, not realizing that I was also easily discarded and forgotten just like the teacups I cherished finding. My mother was committed to her relationship with her eating disorder above all others.
While I was in my 20s and still trying to assess my own relationship with food, motherhood came into my life with the arrival of my son. My husband and I found ourselves in a new city, in a new state, in a new house, at a new job without any support. It was a rocky patch in my eating disorder recovery.
When our son was 2 years old, we decided to use what coins we had collected over the years from our change jar and go on a road trip. This would be our first family vacation, and packing for a toddler is its own job. Trying my best to plan for every scenario and making sure to remember those favorite toys, books, and snacks. “Which books should I pack for myself?” was the only self-care question I pondered while packing up our lives. Being the mother of a spirited toddler doesn’t leave much time for reading, but I thought this trip might actually give me some of that precious time back.
After hours on the road listening to Dr. Seuss books and the O Brother, Where Art Thou? soundtrack, we arrived at our quaint little motel by the lake. We explored the local eateries, took the ferry to the island for a day, walked the beach and rode the waves of many-a-toddler-tantrum. My husband and I both needed a break, so we took turns driving to the next town over to do our laundry. While my son’s cloth diapers were tumbling around in the washer and dryer at the smalltown laundromat, I found myself fully engaged in “This Mean Disease: Growing Up in the Shadow of My Mother's Anorexia Nervosa” written by Daniel Becker. In one chapter, Daniel describes meeting his mother at a restaurant with the plan to enjoy some time together over dinner. His mother is physically there, but not mentally present. Her thoughts are swimming with eating disorder rules. It is as if she doesn’t even realize her son is there wanting to connect and spend time with her. She rejects the relationship she could have with her son along with the food she pushes around on her plate. Daniel tries his best to unpack all the pain and hurt this one moment caused them both. Reading this passage made me feel like the wind had been knocked out of me. I didn’t expect Daniel’s words to light the fire of purpose within me, but I heard my inner voice say, “This will not be Your future with Your son.” Knowing what you don’t want can often help you define what you do want. So, what did I want the future with my son to look like?
I thought about this question a lot over the remainder of our trip. Taking a breath. Pondering what I had needed and wanted from my own mother plus what Daniel had shared in his book about his wants and needs from his mother. Daniel and I both had to accept that the parental relationships we hoped for would never come to fruition because our mothers prioritized their eating disorders.
I wanted and needed to choose the relationships that truly mattered over the relationship I had with my own eating disorder. This choice would propel me forward in my eating disorder recovery, even on the darkest days.
Ultimately, I knew I wanted to create space. Space where my son and I could just be. Space where the eating disorder voice was not allowed to enter. Space where he knew without a doubt that he mattered to me. Time for us and us alone. We could fill the time with whatever we wanted, and he would know in his heart that I prioritized our relationship.
When my son attended elementary school, this special space looked like early-release day trips to the library and getting tea together. The library has always been one of our happy places. A quiet, homey setting to enjoy perusing the shelves for a new chapter book or graphic novel. So many worlds to find and explore together. Then with our books in hand, we would enter our favorite local yarn store/café, walking through the door to find the smiling faces that we still consider friends and family to this day. We would often find a table by the window to hang out, people-watch, read, sip on our favorite teas, have a snack, and talk about life. It was glorious.
As he grew older, this space morphed, but it never disappeared. It turned into functional workouts together where we shared stories and laughed while swinging kettlebells and enjoying movement without any pressure or need to quantify anything. Having great conversations while riding together to get our favorite bubble tea, seeing our tea shop friends and family, followed by walking around downtown. Now that he is away at college, that space looks like sharing funny videos and memes, weekly calls, and written letters.
Recovery is a choice. One I make every day. I choose to have memories of creating space with my family: laughing about movies, sharing favorite books, talking through life’s ups and downs, and being quiet with each other. No eating disorder voice between us.
Tea was once the only love I knew from my mother, and I drank it alone. My son and I drink our favorite teas together. We share our love for tea in a way that prioritizes and honors our relationship. And, he also drinks his favorite teas with his best friends as he makes space to prioritize those college friendships, too. My heart swells with gratitude for all the healing recovery can bring.
Happy Mother’s Day!
