Once upon a time—back when I still believed lavender might cure existential dread—I tried to be an herbal tea person. You know the type. Calm. Graceful. Smells faintly of sage and wisdom. I had visions of myself curled up in a hand-knit shawl, sipping something called Moon Garden Serenity while listening to flute music and feeling deeply connected to the earth.
Yeah, that didn’t happen.
What did happen was me, standing in my kitchen, brewing yet another mug of Relax & Unwind while mentally calculating whether it was worth unloading the dishwasher or just declaring it a “soak day” for the third time in a row.
Let me tell you something: herbal tea does not relax me. It just makes me sad. There’s something deeply disappointing about lifting a steaming mug to your lips and realizing you’re about to drink something that tastes like someone dunked a pine cone in warm bathwater. I kept trying different blends—chamomile, hibiscus, rosehip, something that claimed to be honeybush (whatever the heck that is)—hoping one of them would finally hit the mark. None of them did.
But I kept at it. Because everyone said it was good for you. Supposedly full of antioxidants, soothing, hydrating, healing. . . yada yada. It had become the kale of beverages—socially acceptable, morally superior, and just as hard to choke down.
And then came the turning point.
I was having one of those days, you know the kind, where everything goes sideways. The dog was barking at shadows, the goats were plotting a full-scale mutiny, the rooster decided 3 a.m. was the new sunrise, and I realized I’d been carrying the same laundry basket from room to room for three days without ever folding it. I poured myself a mug of something called Tranquil Sunset that smelled vaguely like musty potpourri and sadness. I took a sip. I made a face. And I swear to you, even my goats looked at me like, Girl, no.
I dumped the rest down the sink and opened the snack drawer.
And there it was.
The chocolate bar.
The wrapper crinkled like angel wings. A sunbeam from the kitchen window hit it just right, like the cocoa gods themselves were saying, Finally, she gets it.
It was basic. It was reliable. It didn’t make promises it couldn’t keep. It didn’t try to realign my aura or fix my digestion. It just sat there, dark and glossy, whispering sweet nothings about cocoa tranquility, waiting to be loved. And in that moment, I knew: this is what I needed all along.
That first bite was a revelation. Creamy, smooth, unapologetically delicious. Not a trace of lemongrass in sight. I closed my eyes and let the serotonin wash over me like a Hallmark movie ending.
From that day forward, I stopped pretending. No more meadow-flavored tea bags with inspirational quotes on the tags. No more guilt trips from wellness influencers in yoga pants telling me to steep nettle leaves and “manifest balance.” Meanwhile, I’m over here with chicken poop on my boots, wondering if “detox” means scrubbing goat water buckets.
I chose chocolate. And I’ve never looked back.
Sometimes it’s a bite in the afternoon. Other times? A rich, warm mug of hot chocolate, loaded with comfort and just enough creaminess to make you forget your to-do list (and the laundry mountain behind the door).
Hot chocolate doesn’t ask questions. It doesn’t judge. It just hugs your insides and reminds you that winter might be long, but it’s nothing a good wool blanket and a cocoa mustache can’t fix.
Herbal tea tried. It really did. But it’s out there smelling like forest floor and broken dreams while I’m in here sipping actual joy in a mug.
Sure, I still own a dusty box of herbal tea somewhere in the back of the pantry—probably sitting next to a jar of quinoa I also gave up on—but I don’t reach for it. Because when life gets bumpy, when the dog eats a sock or the goats start acting like union reps demanding better snacks, I don’t need dandelion root. I need chocolate. Because herbal tea whispers, “Shhh, everything’s fine…” And chocolate kicks the door open and says, “Grab your boots—we’ve got goats on the loose.”
You don’t have to like what everyone else swears by. You don’t have to steep your emotions in hibiscus or suffer through bitter “detox” blends to feel grounded. You can grab the chocolate, roll your eyes at the chaos, and know in your soul that you made the right choice. Herbal tea might help you pretend everything’s fine. But chocolate helps you survive it.
Moral of the Mug:
Herbal tea might be all the rage, but chocolate—especially when it’s warm and in a cozy mug—is the real MVP. Whether it’s a chilly morning on the homestead or a goats’s decided to redecorate the barn, hot chocolate has your back.
So no, I don’t want your wild berry detox infusion. I want chocolate. Sometimes hot chocolate. I want goats that behave. And maybe a clean pair of socks.
But mostly? I want chocolate.
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