I don’t remember when I first started drinking coffee. And that’s not a particularly compelling way to start this essay, but I don’t. What I do know is I am 25, I like my job, and I don’t want to work in coffee forever. 

The first cafe I worked at was a small locally owned coffee shop bookstore in my hometown of Colorado. Years before I worked there, I spent hours in the back room: reading, writing, laughing loudly with my friends on the couches and chairs that seemed as though they had been there since the beginning of time. In the summers I’d sit under the umbrellas on the patio hiding from a bright Colorado sun. I spent as much time there as I did anywhere else.

When I lived abroad in Europe, you’d find me exactly where you’ll find me today: tucked into the back of a coffee shop writing poetry and drinking more caffeine than I need. I started taking cream and sugar in my coffee again in Spain, where each morning coffee was also accompanied by a sweet biscuit. I ate far more than I needed to. 

For a summer in college, I worked at a shop that was more bakery than cafe. Delicious pastries and coffee I could take or leave. 

We’d save our old coffee grounds for local gardeners to pick up, so they could fertilize their gardens with it. Coffee does more than just caffeinate. 

At their earliest, my alarms have gone off at 3:45 am, and on a luxurious day, I get to sleep in till 10. Mornings making coffee has instilled a rhythm in me that draws me awake in the wee hours of dawn and often pulls me into bed shortly after dusk, especially in the winter. 

There is a slowness and a quietness in the morning that quickly escalates into a warm bustling shop, conversation becoming livelier as mugs empty themselves and people order a second drink. 

I do not always love working in customer service. I am not always a patient person. But a sweet drink often brings so much joy that my frustration simmers. 

I don’t consider myself to be an extrovert, but you wouldn’t guess it on the days I am behind the bar. I chat with people on their way to work or school, reflecting on their weekends. And I love to talk about the weather. The sun is out, the rain is rolling back in, the wind has picked up, the clouds are fading. There is something so sweetly human about shared meteorological experiences. Mundane, simple, easy. 

I’ve worked in busy airports and drive-thrus, bookstores and bakeries. You find different people at each place. I’ve met espresso fans, oat milk aficionados, and straight black coffee drinkers after my own heart. 

I have taken my coffee differently over the years. Iced lattes, pour-overs at home, splashes of cream, caramel cold brew, and cups of plain black drip. I have a tendency to overestimate myself and the last quarter of my 16oz cup of coffee is always cold. 

Today I work in a shop with a screeching espresso machine and jars of tea lining the shelves behind the bar. The credit card machine works slowly if it goes through at all. I’ve spent too many mornings on the phone with tech support when the computer crashes. Over the last year, I’ve spilled enough milk to fill a swimming pool, which is why I’m always happy to remake a customer a drink that has quickly disappeared from the cup and reappeared on the floor. I always say we each get one spill, knowing that I myself will have at least five before the morning is over. 

I’m a fast barista. A friendly one. A messy one. A good one.

I have a sharp memory and a big smile. I work as hard as I laugh. Very hard.

I have been a barista off and on for six years now and it is starting to show. I feel less patient at work and my wrists have started to ache and creak. I have always known I do not want to work in coffee forever, but even after graduating college with my bachelor’s degree in hand, nothing else called to me. 

There is an irony in writing that now on my personal blog because the truth is that the thing I have always wanted to do is write. The truth about college and my degree is that the one thing I enjoyed consistently was the writing I got to do. 

At my core, I am a writer, a researcher, a copyeditor. And for so long I simply didn’t know what to do with that other than to go back to school, or apparently, make coffee. As if I have not spent half of my life holed up in the back of cafes writing my essays and poetry. 

Much like drinking coffee, I don’t remember when I decided I wanted to be a freelance writer, but I know it was some time earlier this year. In between coffee shop shifts I have poured over YouTube videos and articles on how a person can make money writing anytime they want, from anywhere they want. For example, a coffee shop.

I started my blog in March. I took headshots in April. I started taking classes in June and writing samples in July. I updated my LinkedIn in August. I built myself a website in September. In October, I got my first paid writing gig. It’s not much money, but I now write monthly blog posts for a small zero-waste market in North Seattle. Writing certainly doesn’t pay my bills yet, but as of last week, I can officially say I am a paid freelance writer. Someone, for some reason, is giving me money to do the thing I have always loved. 

I still work 30 hours a week in coffee. My wrists still hurt. I only have time to write in between shifts and sleep, meals and time with friends, but it is a rhythm of work I am so excited to have fallen into. 

I’m a fast writer. A clever one. A creative one. A good one.

Coffeeshops have given me so much space throughout my life to become everything I am now. They are the spaces I produce my art and the avenue through which I create my livelihood. I am 25, I like my job, but I am not going to work in coffee forever.