Mug Life

After a ten-year hiatus, coffee and I are back together. 

I learned what an americano was during my training days as a part-time summer barista. Espresso and water. (Yes, watered-down espresso. The Italians are cursing us out.) Who knew something that seemed fancier than plain drip coffee could also be so simple and so delicious? 

I lived off iced americanos ever since I got acquainted. I started off with a tiny splash of milk swirling throughout and one packet of raw sugar sitting at the bottom. I eventually started drinking them black. 

And one day in my mid-20s, I decided to quit coffee. I realized I hated the way it made me feel. The jitter, the stomach gurgles, the rush of caffeine hitting me all at once, the crash in the afternoon. Why was I doing this to myself? So I quit.

This was quietly devastating to me, because I loved coffee. I even tried decaf for a while — hoping I could at least enjoy the taste without the side effects — but it just didn’t taste right. (Though to be fair, decaf has come a long way. I think the coffee people fixed it. Or maybe I’m the one that changed?)

I’ve always loved coffee, even before I was introduced to americanos. As a kid, my favorite ice cream flavor was Haagen-Dazs coffee (a questionable choice for a child, but I had it and loved it). Unlike many people I know, I’ve never needed to “acquire” a taste for it. There are so many people who hate the taste of coffee but guzzle it anyway for the caffeine boost. I didn’t drink it for the energy; I drank it because I genuinely liked it.

My hiatus ended up lasting about ten years. 

I loved tea too, so it was a relatively easy transition to getting any caffeine fix I needed. And I did have some coffee in those ten years. I had the occasional cup while on vacation (immediate happiness that often led to regret), or a few sips from my husband’s cup. I savored every moment of it, and a few sips was often the most I could have before feeling too amped up. 

Even when I wasn’t drinking coffee regularly, I still sought out coffee shops — especially on vacation. Mostly for my husband’s benefit, since he appreciates a great cup of coffee (and, selfishly, so I could have a sip of his). I’d find little spots with a neighborhood feel: locally roasted coffee, handwritten signs, chatty regulars. Even better if they had good tea. I didn’t go for the drink. I went for the feeling, for the ritual. It was the routine that I craved, maybe even more than the coffee. In addition to the routine, it was also the sense of community. We often became regulars at a coffee shop for the duration of our stay. Learned all the baristas’ names, made friends with some of the regulars.

I missed that routine back home too. But it felt weird to hang out at a coffee shop when all I was ordering was a tea and a pastry I sometimes didn’t want. So I stopped going.

And then came a company offsite (in Vegas, mind you, a place where caffeine seems essential).

During a scheduled break, a group of people made their way to the coffee shop. There was coffee and snacks in the adjacent meeting room, sure, but the coffee break was a reason to leave and get a change of scenery. I was exhausted, after travel and after sitting through sessions of company rah-rah. So I decided to risk it all and allow myself to have one of those occasional cups that I knew I would regret later. I ordered an americano, black. My go-to. And I was expensing it, so if I couldn’t handle it and had to abandon it… no harm, nothing to lose. 

And nothing happened. No heart palpitations, no jitters, no feelings of “I’m about to puke”. Just a little cup of joy and the familiar warmth of a ritual I didn’t know I’d been missing.

I soon realized why I was ok with coffee. It turns out that coffee wasn’t the problem. The context was: It was the empty stomach. I never ate breakfast, and only started to have breakfast every day in the last five years or so. Ten years ago, I still lived in NYC, never eating breakfast, always stressing out, never slowing down. The coffee wasn’t the problem. I was the problem. 

I used to think quitting coffee was a sign of self-awareness, and maybe it was. But coming back to it feels like something else entirely. Not indulgence or regression, but just… coming back to myself?

Returning to coffee made it easier to return to coffee shops, too. Because no matter how much you like chai or loose-leaf tea, it just doesn’t hit the same when you’re at a third-wave coffee shop known for their locally roasted coffee, and ordering anything that isn’t coffee. It feels very “what’s even the point?”

Now I order a real cup. I take a seat, and I feel like I belong. I’ve returned to the ritual, the community, and it’s made me feel a bit more like myself.

I feel like there’s a profound life lesson here, about timing and circumstances being right, or it being ok to take a break from things even if you love them, or something else. I don’t know. All I know is, I feel like I’ve rediscovered something I used to love, and am appreciating it in a new way.