Takeaway
Kind gestures, like bringing a patient a cup of tea, may help bridge the gap between suffering and solace. Such thoughtfulness can offer comfort as powerful as any medication.
Connecting with Patients | June 4, 2025 | 3 min read
By Linjie Luo, MBBS, PhD, Johns Hopkins Medicine Observership Program, with Carolina Musri, MD, Johns Hopkins Medicine
Tea is more than a beverage—it’s a quiet language of presence, a ritual that speaks through stillness and sincerity. In China, where I’m from, the art of tea, or Cha Dao (茶道), reflects harmony between human and nature, and sharing tea becomes an intimate gesture of deep connection. In Japan, the tea ceremony is a spiritual practice, rooted in harmony, respect, purity, and tranquility, a meditation on finding reverence in the smallest moments.
My devotion to the art of tea began in childhood, beneath the fragrant blossoms of a locust tree in our backyard. My parents and I would sit together in the hush of the afternoon light, sipping tea in gentle silence. In those pauses, we came to understand one another more deeply, to cherish the present, and to be held by love. I was taught to offer tea with both hands, not just for balance, but as a gesture of sincerity and care. As I grew older and crossed oceans, Chinese tea remained by my side, its quiet warmth a source of comfort, a whisper of home.
Years later, in the stillness of the room of a patient undergoing hospice care, that childhood memory returned to me.
The patient lay quietly in bed, thin and tired, eyes half-closed from days of decline. Her family had stepped out briefly, and I sat beside her with a small porcelain cup of oolong tea, no words, just presence. I offered it to her with both hands. Her fingers trembled as she received it. After a long sip, she looked up and said softly, “Thank you for taking the time . . . letting the leaves breathe.”
In that moment, a simple cup of tea meant more than a warm beverage. It became a bridge of connection, a vessel of empathy, and a moment of peace within the quiet ache of suffering. What might seem like an ordinary act became a gesture of comfort and belonging, for her, and for those who loved her.
“Let the leaves breathe.”
Every time I steep tea now, I think of her. That moment remains suspended in slowness and grace. Tea, I have come to believe, can be a ritual of deep compassion, a gentle practice that holds space for uncertainty, fragility, and fear. These small rituals carry great significance.
In a world where medicine often leans toward efficiency and metrics, to sit with a patient, to listen with undivided attention, to gently adjust a blanket, can make them feel seen, dignified, and truly cared for. Tea invites me to return to the heart of care. Just as tea leaves need room to unfold, so too do patients, especially in their moments of vulnerability.
As Maya Angelou once said, “They may forget what you said, but they will never forget how you make them feel.” Tea reminds me to slow down. To offer presence. To let the leaves breathe.
Here are a few things I’ve learned from tea about patient care:
1. Emotional warmth can ease physical pain.
A soothing word or gentle presence can offer comfort as powerful as any medication.
2. There is wisdom in slowness.
Pausing allows space for connection, empathy, and healing to unfold.
3. Small gestures can make a difference when it comes to making someone feel seen and supported.
This piece expresses the views solely of the author. It does not necessarily represent the views of any organization, including Johns Hopkins Medicine.