Therapy Bits

In our house, getting sick has never been just an inconvenience—it’s an invitation into a small, time-worn ritual that somehow makes the coughing and congestion feel a little less heavy. Long before I understood what a tradition was, I understood the comfort of a hot toddy. It appeared whenever someone’s voice grew hoarse, or whenever a sneeze sounded just a little too dramatic. The ingredients were simple—nothing more than hot water, lemon, honey, and a splash of whiskey—but the meaning was always richer than the drink itself.

Growing up, I used to think the magic was in the steam rising from the mug, or the way the lemon brightened the kitchen with its citrus snap. But the older I get, the more clearly I see that the real warmth wasn’t from the toddy at all. It came from the person who made it.

In our house, a hot toddy wasn’t just handed over; it was announced. Someone would say, “Sit down, I’ll make you one,” as if preparing a potion that required both authority and affection. The preparation was never rushed. The kettle was allowed to whistle. The honey was coaxed out slowly, as though impatience would ruin its healing power. The whiskey bottle—usually ignored until flu season—was uncorked with the soft resignation of a family member stepping up to do their duty.

When the mug was placed in front of you, warm and fragrant, you were expected to cradle it in both hands, to breathe it in before taking a sip. That first sip always carried a little sting from the whiskey, followed by the soothing glide of honey. It was a reminder that healing isn’t always gentle at first, but it settles in. It gets easier. It works.

As an adult, I’ve found myself preserving the ritual even when no one else is around. When I’m sick—when the world feels too loud and my body feels too small—I catch myself reaching for the kettle, the lemon, the honey, the familiar bottle tucked away for just such a moment. I make the drink the way it was made for me, with the same slow steadiness, as though I’m still learning how to take care of myself from the people who taught me.

It’s funny how such a simple tradition can hold so much history. I can trace a whole lineage of illnesses through it: winter colds that knocked us out for days, late-night fevers that had us wrapped in blankets, the occasional heartbreak that wasn’t physical but needed something warm anyway. The hot toddy has been there through all of it, as constant as the seasons that bring the sniffles back around.

In a world where remedies get more complicated every year, our little ritual remains stubbornly humble. It doesn’t promise a miracle cure. It doesn’t pretend to erase the discomfort. What it does promise—quietly, consistently—is comfort. A moment of pause. A reminder that even when you’re feeling weak, you’re still cared for, even if the person caring is you.

Maybe that’s why I hold on to the tradition so tightly. Because in our house, a hot toddy has never just been a drink. It has been a gesture of love disguised as a remedy—a small, warm act that makes being sick feel a little less lonely, and being human feel a little more connected.

Hot Toddy – Word of the Day Challenge