Coffee First, Clarity Later

I used to be a night owl. These days, I’m lucky if I can keep my eyes open past 8 p.m. Mornings have never been my strong suit. I don't know who said it, but I agree: the best part of wakin’ up is still a mystery to me.

Energy drinks? Forget it. I tried one once and crashed so hard I thought I’d been unplugged from the wall. And let’s be honest: if Red Bull really did give me wings, I’d just break them flying into a window.

No, my loyalty has always been to coffee. Back in the day, I could put away a couple of pots without blinking. Okay, maybe blinking too much, with that glazed-over, jittery look. People would ask, “How much coffee have you had?” and I’d answer, “Why… how much is there?”

Somewhere along the way, I graduated from “coffee enthusiast” to “coffee snob.” Before my Keurig, the Starbucks barista had my Americano ready the second she saw my truck pull up. No greeting, no upsell, just, “Here you go, we’ve budgeted your paycheck for you.” Sad but true. At least my Keurig eventually paid for itself.

Now, I collect coffee memes like other people collect heirlooms - I have an entire wall of coffee-related signs on my office wall: Coffee first, life later. Coffee: because adulting is hard. Coffee understands. I’m pretty sure if I ever got a family crest, it would just be a steaming mug with the words, “Don’t talk to me yet.”

The funny thing is, coffee isn’t really about caffeine anymore, it’s about ritual. That pause before the day takes over, the comfort of something warm in your hands, the illusion that you’ve got a handle on things. Somewhere between the jitters of my twenties and the early-bedtime version of me now, coffee shifted from survival fuel to a daily anchor.

That shift is what grief can feel like too. In the middle of loss, you start reaching for rituals and objects that steady you. They may not change the circumstances, but they give your body and your heart a moment of calm. Sometimes it’s coffee. Sometimes it’s lighting a candle, re-reading an old card, or setting one place at the table even if it stays empty. It isn’t really about the object. It’s about what the ritual whispers: you’re still here, you still have something to hold on to.

Of course, not all rituals help forever. Some soothe, some smother. But that’s the dance of grief - figuring out which anchors keep you afloat and which ones just weigh you down. For me, coffee landed in the “anchor” category. It’s a small act, but it reminds me every morning that I can start again.