Amber light seeps from windows, smiling faces shaded by olive branches that sway with wind and coffee-house jazz music. I’m writing this column during my 15-minute break, honey lemon tea nursed in one hand and my keyboard under the other.
But it hasn’t always been this way. I’ve been working at my parent’s coffee shop since the summer before my freshman year. When I first started working, I would drag myself out of bed, pull on my black uniform and head to work — motivation sparked solely by my duty to my family who were largely in debt after recently opening a business.
Unbeknownst to me at the time, it wasn’t the job or the labor that made my shifts feel miserable, but my own mindset. Growing up, my parents had always lectured me about thoroughness, saying, “If you’re going to do something, you should do it well.” I took these words a little too seriously, thrusting perfectionism into my time at the café. Every moment I tried to keep moving, desperate to make myself useful. This turned shifts into slogs of mumbling recipes and steps in dizzied hazes. I had associated my self-worth with how many toasts or drinks I could make in 10 minutes, or how often I would perform the arduous labor no one else wanted to do. I felt more like a cog in a machine than a human: sweaty, sore, muscles aching. What’s worse is that through my discomfort I would refuse to take breaks throughout my seven hour shifts, darting from one blurry task to another.
But when I started to allow myself to take breaks and my mind to drift from rigid tasks to the little things, I was no longer solely driven by a sense of obligation to support my family. Instead, I started to find love in the coffee shop. The atmosphere, the people. I saw Bill, a war veteran, wheel in through the door daily to find solace from haunting memories in smooth, sweet lattes. Watched as his lashes closed, chin tipped back, savoring the space under sunlight. Even my understanding of fellow staff members, whom I had once viewed as intimidating, started to sprout. I grew to smile at disproportioned Garfield cat sketches and bubble-letter-cheer-up notes left on our storage-room whiteboard. Soon I left some of my own, scrawling pastel reminders to stay hydrated in the back, drawing smiley faces into the condensation-coated cold brew dispensers.
I found wonder in the way friends and families circled the checkered toasts we had previously made, food and beverages serving as diverging points, conversation starters and sources of smiles. Their chiming laughter, blending with the drips of pour-over tea.
Focusing on these human aspects allowed me to find value and appreciation for both life inside and outside work, as I learned that creating small, joyful moments in someone’s life is priceless, even if that act seems as small as brewing someone a cup of tea.
