It Feels Like a Coffee Day

I grew up hating coffee. I didn't like the taste or the smell. It wasn't until I was newly eighteen years old, traveling internationally, that I finally discovered the merits of the magical bean juice. Exhausted and surrounded by new tastes and sights and smells, coffee was a lifesaver. And, when I got back to the US?

Coffee was officially on the menu.

Even though I liked it, coffee didn't become a daily staple until my early twenties. Late nights with friends, early mornings for work, a little pick-me-up throughout the day, the consuption quickly consumed me. Until I got pregnant and decided that I wouldn't drink any, not even decaf. I did, however, grab all my family members' and close friends' cups as soon as they were within striking distance to huff the steam. I had read somewhere that the smell alone could provide the same benefits as the actual drink, but I also think I was pregnant and delusional becuase it definitely didn't do a thing.

Nine months later with a newborn who never dipped in weight and had a healthy pair of lungs, the coffee obsession returned, even more excessive than before. It was partially because of the hope that it would help with the sleep deprivation, but it was largely because of the Mom Culture aspect. Coffee shops were where people were willing to meet and spend time with my little human and I, but it slowly became an actual, acquired part of my personality.

For nearly a decade, I slowly improved my coffee game: Went from instant packets to a Keurig to pour over with storebought creamer to a moka pot with specific "espresso grounds" with homemade caramel and chocolate sauces.

I'm fairly certain that less than ten days went by in the same number of years where I didn't have coffee, though I eventually limited myself to a single cup a day. Then, my husband decided it was time for an espresso machine in the house. I was resistent at first. I had turned a slavish relationship with coffee into a thoughtful, ritualistic part of my day, and I was nervous about how such a piece of equipment might alter that shift. It was a worry for nothing. I'm still learning how to use the espresso maker, but it is also still a calm, unhurried, and intentional part of my day. At least, it is on the days I have coffee.

Because something happened this year that drastically changed my coffee habits yet again.

As a result of life events, I went from annoying-but-functional waves of anxiety to absolutely crippling levels. And I was trying everything to combat it. Trying to tough it out, cry it out, walk it out, talk it out, sweat it out, write it out, and the list goes on. I changed how I slept, started journaling, changed how I dressed, shook up my eating habits, and even started therapy. But the change that took the longest and was the hardest to adopt was my coffee routine. I was grasping my cup of iced latte with clenched teeth and shaking fists. I caught a momentaty hint of peace in the ritual of making a cup, but the actual results of drinking it were not helping my daily battles with anxiety.

I knew all the research and intellectual points of why coffee should have been the first thing stricken from the list. I knew how I felt after drinking it, especially on the really hard days. I literally cried over the decision process. I was entirely irrational about the choice. Heck, I decided to teach myself about latte art at that point and made practicing part of the routine. But, eventually, I was standind in front of the shiny, still new espresso machine, eyes blank and wet, and simply couldn't bring myself to turn it on. I cut coffee out of my mornings, my days, entirely for a couple of weeks. I started to feel a smidge better, made progress in therapy, and thought it was time to finally have a cup.

And I thought wrong.

I was on edge all day, heart racing for nothing, thoughts spiraling. Then, I was angry. I wanted to make coffee and enjoy the process. I wanted to take slow sips and watch my daughter play with the dogs. I wanted to be able to sit still without becoming absolutely overwhelmed by my mind, helped along by a body that didn't want to settle and feel safe and used everything I consumed to prove the point. I wanted to not feel so tired and sad. I wanted to not have headaches from the lack of caffeine. I wanted time to just stop and let me catch up and catch my breath. I just wanted an iced latte without actively feeling like a single cup made everything in my life worse. I unintentionally made that desire into a goal.

"It's defintely not a coffee day." That sentence started to appear in my mourning journal regularly. And, slowly, I was able to write: "It feels like a coffee day." But each morning was treated individually, and writing it down didn't always make it so. ON actual coffee days, I made much stricter rules for myself. Coffee is no longer a first-thing activity in the morning. It is still only a single cup, but it is only made after a real, savory meal. It's only drank after a lot of water is swallowed down. And it's not a gurarantee, and it's not a step backward every time I feel that it's simply not a coffee day.

Anxiety has been an interesting monster in my life, impacting me in ways I never expected. Similarly, coffee has been a literal fluid presence in my life. The ways in which the two have become linked in my mind and body isn't unique to me, I'm sure, but it is something I'm learning not everyone is willing to assess and adapt. Using my coffee time as meditative, making the choice to not drink it as a means to improve my days, and balancing the truth and practicality of both has been a steep learning curve. Still, I'm glad for the undertaking, learning to be happy with the daily results, and am extra grateful for those days that turn out to be coffee days.

Whew! I'll be honest, this one is less a blog article and a little bit of a personal essay about anxiety. It's a piece I wrote for another purpose, but this is where it ended up living. I hope this wasn't a total bummer, and thanks for taking the time to read it!