Every morning, I perform a small act of preservation.

The jar glints in the early light, its contents a deep amber – raw honey from the farm down the road. Not the homemade that Dad and my ankles made, but still much better than the cheap one from the plastic jar  in the convenience stores..

I plunge the honey dipper into the jar. Golden strands fall, landing in today’s chosen escape: Vanilla Spice tea. Tomorrow, it’ll be Japanese Sencha. Thirty-plus varieties line my cupboard, a colorful army against the tyranny of endless childhood chamomile.

Honey melts. I’m ten again, stomach clenched on the kitchen stool. Dad’s voice echoes:

“Excellence isn’t optional. It’s a duty.”

“But Dad, I got an A-minus. That’s still good, right?”

“Good? We don’t aim for ‘good.’ We aim for exceptional. Anything less is—”

“A waste of potential. I know, Dad.”

Now, as an adult, I prefer my mornings quiet. No high standards, no pressure.

Just me, my honey, and whichever tea suits my mood. 

I stir the honey slowly, watching it disappear into the tea. The sweetness is no longer a reward for perfection, but a simple pleasure I grant myself. Every sip is a small rebellion against those relentless childhood lectures, a gentle reminder that I am enough, just as I am.