I was in 11th grade and some of my friends would sneak out of class and go to a diner for coffee. I didn't drink coffee then. To me coffee was like alcohol—I didn’t like the taste and it carried no appeal to me. I would sit at the table and talk and share and occasionally pull back and think, why on earth are they drinking coffee?
I was 22 when I moved to Spain for a year. I modeled, got my first paying acting role and discovered my love for coffee—or shall I say, cafe con leche. In the artistic cafes of Barcelona and Madrid I fell in love with coffee. I fell in love with the smell, the taste, the ritual. The experience was visceral. The Spanish language and the energy were exciting and added to the rich depth of my daily cup.
I was 24 when I moved to Los Angeles and having coffee was the one thing I could count on daily. In a time of life where everything was unpredictable—and, at times, lonely—I looked forward to the morning which brought my one saving splendor—to make and drink my coffee.
When my children came along, coffee became my rock, my one indulgence.
Little did I know that coffee did not love me.
My ritual of morning bliss was replaced with 3 PM temper tantrums—mine, not my kids.
My patience completely frayed.
I tossed and turned during restless nights.
“Perhaps it’s the coffee?” my husband suggested. No way. I wouldn't give it up. He had to be wrong. I was not going to give up my one and only, the one thing that was just for me.
But I did.
And guess what? My life changed.
I no longer felt the grip I thought just came with life.
I had more grace in my interactions with others, my kids, and myself. I let go of neurotic thoughts that I assumed were just ME!!!
I drink tea now and occasionally, when I travel, I will have a coffee and savor in the doing of it. But honestly? My life is better without it.
Dear Coffee, thank you for the years of service.
Your service is no longer needed.