Why It Starts with a Cuppa

Some people meditate. Some people journal. Some people wake up at five in the morning and go running.

I put the kettle on.

There is a sign hanging in my kitchen that says, “No problem can’t be fixed by talking to Mum and a cup of tea.”

As the mother of two boys, I have conducted extensive research into this theory. I can confirm that tea helps with homework, teenage moods and little kid's tantrums, missing soccer cleats, last-minute school projects, and children who remember—usually at bedtime—that they need something for school the next morning.

Tea has also helped me through more than a few emotional breakdowns. It does not necessarily solve them, but it gives me something warm to hold and something to sip dramatically while I reconsider every decision I have ever made.

But life eventually taught me something much harder:

Some problems cannot be fixed.

Not by Mum.

Not by the strongest cup of tea.

Not even by love.

My name is Lizzie, and my husband’s name was Paul.

Paul and I were only 21 and 22 years old when, after knowing each other for six months, we did what every sensible young couple with their whole lives ahead of them would do.

We secretly got married.

Apparently, patience and carefully considered decisions were not the foundation of our marriage.

But love was.

For 23 years, we built a life together. We raised our boys, Eamonn and Ronan, and filled our home with family, sporting schedules, school bags, laughter, disagreements and compromises, dogs, and the beautiful chaos that never feels particularly beautiful while you are living through it.

Then one day, you look back and realize those ordinary moments were the life.

Paul was an amazing husband and a devoted father. He was also a coach, a runner, a Liverpool supporter, one of the founders of a hurling club, and someone who believed every child deserved an opportunity to play.

His coaching philosophy was simple:

“There’s no picking; we’re only kicking.”

Paul had a gift for making people feel as though they belonged.

Then our lives changed with words no family is ever prepared to hear:

Grade IV brain cancer.

Suddenly, our conversations were no longer about practices, work schedules, or whose turn it was to drive. They were about doctors, treatments, medications, test results, and how to explain the unexplainable to our children.

I wanted to fix it.

I wanted to research enough, organize enough, pray enough, love him enough, and fight hard enough to make everything turn out differently.

I was his wife. I was a mother. I was a teacher. I was the person people came to when something needed to be handled.

Surely, I could handle this too.

But cancer does not care how organized you are.

Grief does not follow a lesson plan.

And life does not always respect the future you carefully wrote for yourself.

A cup of tea could not cure Paul’s cancer. It could not stop time or protect our boys from losing their dad.

But the cups of tea still mattered.

They represented the people who sat beside us when there were no right words. The friends who listened. The community that carried us. The conversations that reminded me I did not need to have every answer.

That is why I created It Starts with a Cuppa.

This will not be a place where I pretend to have grief figured out. I do not.

It will not be a place where I tell you to remain positive every minute of every day. I certainly did not.

This will be a place for honest conversations about love, loss, caregiving, motherhood, faith, loneliness, laughter, and the courage it takes to rebuild a life you never expected to be living.

We will talk about grá—the Irish word for love.

We will talk about grit—the strength we often discover only after we are convinced we have none left.

We will talk about honoring the people we love while still giving ourselves permission to live, laugh, travel, listen to music, and even dance again.

Some days will be difficult. Some stories may make us cry. Others will make us laugh—and I hope a few will make us turn up the music and dance around the kitchen.

Because joy does not erase grief.

Laughter does not diminish love.

And continuing to live does not mean leaving someone behind.

Paul remains part of our story. His love continues through our boys, the community he built, the lives he touched, and every step we take in his honor.

I am still learning how to carry what cannot be fixed. Maybe you are too.

If you are grieving, caregiving, rebuilding, or simply trying not to let the hard days win, there is a place for you here.

You do not need to arrive with answers.

Just pull up a chair.

I’ll put the kettle on.

With grá, grit, and a good cuppa,

Lizzie

Originally published on It Starts with a Cuppa ↗

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