My friends would say I'm not the person to go to for tea, a

Hear, O seekers of strength, the words of Deborah Meaden, spoken with clarity and resolve: “My friends would say I'm not the person to go to for tea, a cuddle and sympathy, because I can't deliver. But if you want something sorted out and need a champion who will stand by your side, that is me.” In these words lies the essence of a warrior’s spirit—one who may not soothe the heart with gentle comforts, but who stands unyielding when the storm breaks, wielding action in place of sentiment, resolve in place of softness.

The meaning of her saying is that not all forms of love and friendship are alike. Some offer warmth and tenderness, the balm of sympathy and consolation. Others, like Deborah herself, offer the shield and sword of action. Such people may not dry your tears, but they will confront the cause of your tears. They may not serve tea at your hour of sorrow, but they will stand as a fortress beside you, fighting with unwavering loyalty until the trial is overcome. This, too, is love—though fiercer, more rugged, and often misunderstood.

History resounds with such figures. Consider Queen Elizabeth I of England, who was not known for maternal tenderness, but whose steadfastness defended her people against the vast might of Spain. When the Armada approached her shores, she declared to her soldiers that though she had the body of a weak and feeble woman, she bore the heart and stomach of a king. She did not console her subjects with soft words, but inspired them with courage and stood as their champion. And through her strength, the realm endured.

So too in the Roman age did Cincinnatus, the farmer called to defend Rome, embody this truth. He was not one to comfort the citizens with kind speech, but to act decisively, to sort out the chaos that threatened his people. He took command, defeated the enemy, and when the task was done, returned humbly to his plough. He did not stroke brows or whisper reassurances—he fought, resolved, and protected. His love for his people was expressed not through sympathy, but through steadfast action.

Deborah Meaden, a woman of enterprise and courage, carries the same fire. She does not offer the gentleness of a cradle, but the unyielding presence of a comrade in the trenches. She reminds us that friendship has many forms, and that those who do not comfort in the ways we expect may nevertheless love us fiercely in the ways we most need. The world requires both—the healer who soothes the wound and the warrior who prevents the wound from striking again.

The lesson, O listener, is this: know your own strength and offer it without shame. If you are not one to console with soft words, then stand as one who protects with deeds. If you are not skilled in offering sympathy, then be the one who offers solutions, courage, and loyalty. The world does not need every soul to play the same part; it needs each soul to embrace its truest form of service.

And so, remember this wisdom: friendship is not always the hand that wipes away the tear. Sometimes it is the shield that blocks the next blow, the voice that shouts back at the storm, the presence that will not abandon you when the night is darkest. Be such a friend if that is who you are, and cherish such friends if they stand beside you. For in their strength you will find safety, and in your own strength others will find salvation.

Thus let Deborah’s words endure: it is not in tea and sympathy alone that love is shown, but in the steadfast championing of one another. To be such a champion is to be remembered not as one who comforted for a moment, but as one who defended for a lifetime.