For twenty-five years, Li Xin’s life has revolved around one thing: making the best jasmine tea she can. She started young, right beside her grandpa in their small home workshop. He didn’t just teach her steps, instead, he showed her how the leaves felt, how the scent changed hour by hour, how patience was everything. It wasn’t glamorous work, just long days and careful hands.

What keeps Li Xin going, year after year, isn’t just skill. It’s a deep-down love for the tea itself. She talks about the process like talking about an old friend: it needs constant watching. You can’t rush it. A sudden rain can ruin a whole batch of drying leaves. Getting the jasmine flowers to give up their perfect scent? That means working late, night after night, when the air is just right. It’s hard, frustrating sometimes. You learn to pick yourself up, try again. “No shortcuts,” she says firmly. “Good tea takes grit, same as living a good life.”

Li Xin often thinks back to her grandpa. His biggest lesson wasn’t about heat or timing. It was quieter, deeper. “He’d watch me work,” she remembers, a small smile touching her lips, “and he’d say, ‘Xiao Xin, the tea tells the story. How careful you are, how you handle trouble… it all ends up in the cup. Tea shows a person’s heart.’” For Li Xin, every careful step – sorting, scenting, drying – is a bit of her own story, her own heart, steeped right into the leaves she shares.