I wear a splint on my wrist now. A bulky, conspicuous splint. Too often, I walk into a restaurant and midway through my order, it becomes the topic of conversation with my host/server.
Just tap or insert your card whenever you’re ready. Oh no, what happened to your hand? Oh, I work in a coffeeshop. Just working too much, I guess. Tendonitis. Their face softens and smiles, giving way to empathy, perhaps even a hint of recognition. Damn, sorry to hear that. My arm’s also been hurting for a while now; I should get one of those things too. Hey, that’s how you know you been in the industry, am I right? I laugh politely and tip them a little extra. Thanks, man. Of course. Hey, you take care now, alright? For sure, you too.
Since beginning treatment some half-year ago, I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve had some version of this same conversation. Bartenders, servers, delivery drivers, kitchen staff, my own customers, fellow baristas – you name it. Most of the folks I’ve encountered haven’t gone so far as to patch up or get the treatment they need. I hope my unsightly brace can serve as a gentle nudge for them to seek help. But if not, at least we share a little “I see you” moment and it brings us an odd, troubling sense of comfort.
We may have been strangers but a simple visual cue suddenly connects us, breaks down any invisible barriers that may have stood between us. Culture, color, class, generation, language, religion – these identifiers almost feel trivial, now that we’ve established our unspoken camaraderie as service workers. The connective tissue between us is an injury, ironically, the decay of our own tendons. What bonds us is a wound.
Whenever I have a proper day off, I spend it in hot pursuit of nothingness. Mind-numbing, mundane activities that empty my mental cavity, so as to cease all brain activity about work. This usually fails, as I’m lured into other cafes by my own lack of discipline, and once I’m in another cafe, it’s game over. I unconsciously slip into a frenzied trance, silently interrogating their daily operations and calculating their COGs; I’m under the influence of caffeine and hustle culture, trying to enjoy my cappuccino for-here but helplessly, pathetically, succumbing to the temptation to contemplate the trade-offs between burr geometry versus workflow and wondering how this cafe can sustain itself after five years, high labor costs, and no venture capital. Some may suggest to me that I’m spiraling.
Even if I could cleanse my thoughts of work, I keep my phone within easy reach, lest a crisis happens without my knowing. And “crises” have and continue to happen. Hey, sorry to bother you on your day off but we’re almost 86 milk. Hey, when is the coffee shipment arriving? We’re almost out. Hey, Dave called out sick today and we’re short can you come in? I spend most of my waking hours drenched and submerged in work that my off days are spent wringing out work like a dirty rag, but usually to no avail. This is the life I’ve chosen.
Sometimes you don’t realize just how soiled that rag has gotten. No amount of wringing and rinsing with hot water will rid you of the stench without a proper deep cleaning. Or, throwing in the towel. That filthy, filthy towel. And that is what I did. I recently left this job, for the better, I think. And that kind of sums up the last few weeks since my departure: just allowing my body to purge and purge and purge until there’s nothing left to purge. Yet I tense up at the thought of emptying myself because I’m afraid of what I might find, or rather, what I won’t find. I’m afraid that my pursuit of nothingness will finally yield its fruit: a shell of a person.
Freedom is a confusing thing when you haven’t experienced it in a long time. My body is at a loss of what or how to feel at this sudden vacuum of time and space. I’ve spent the last few years tightly wedged in a niche corner of haute coffee, a glorified hotbed of unchecked obsession and short tempers, and this is what I’m left with. It was, by no means, healthy but it was fulfilling. One might call what we had “enmeshment”. Now, I cannot process this gaping hole as anything else but that – a void I must fill. Of course, I know that’s not true but on my worst days, I’m left wondering why I’m not happier about my decision to leave and this is my best guess.
I think I can catalog this whole experience as something I’d never relive in another life, yet I wouldn’t regret either. Which is funny to say now, because I was fully aware of what might happen if I chose into this, but I chose it anyways. Call me a fool but I got what I wanted. It’s made me a better barista, I think. For better or worse, I’m “stronger”, which is often shorthand in the service industry for being able to put up with more bullshit, un-phased and expeditiously. I’ve burned my hands enough times that I wonder if I steam my milk too hot because 140 degrees Fahrenheit doesn’t quite feel the same anymore. I’ve put out enough fires for me to walk into a burning cafe and not break a sweat. “Keep service running. The show must go on.” Somedays, it’s hard to tell if I’m better at handling stress or if I’m simply more unfeeling.
My partner works in the mental health field and we often touch on the topic of resilience in our everyday conversations. Is it that we’re able to pick ourselves back up in a speedier fashion in the wake of tragedy? Or is it simply our pain tolerance? Is it how much we can take before we crumble and spend our ten’s crying in the bathroom? It never sat well with me the way people wear resilience on their sleeve like a badge. Resilience is a buzzy word nowadays but what must first happen for resilience to be developed?
Despite all the gleaming red flags, despite all the cues that I’ve overstayed my visit, I’m still here, working in the industry. In between existential dread and interventions from loved ones, my stubborn ass still wants to believe that I can make a career out of this, that I still have a say in what success means to me, even as a child of immigrants. You would think that a couple bouts of burnout and depression would do it but I suppose after going through enough shit, you either get weeded out or you double down on whatever convictions hold you here.
How American of me to choose a life of “purpose” over a life of stability and financial security. Yet I can’t help but to see through my own self-deception: like this whole “passion for hospitality” is somehow self-serving at the end of the day. All these inner platitudes of telling my story and finding meaning in my craft – are they not ploys of my stubborn ego? Maybe I’m just an overgrown child trying to cope with unresolved insecurities. I just want to feel important. Good, at something.
Some days, I fall into the temptation of believing that there isn’t another space out there for me. Not for a poorly-socialized, neurodivergent mess like me. If coffee is the one place I can feel like I belong, I’ll sink my claws in for as long as I can. I’m just trying my best, as we all are.
It was in my last cafe tenure that I somehow realized a hidden resolve buried deep within me to open up my own cafe space in the future. It was a dream that I kept trying to snuff out, likely because I was afraid of what I might hear (and what I would eventually hear) from others, and what I already knew to be true. It’s impossible. It’s a life of suffering. It’s not worth it. You’re not ready for this. And if you’re foolish enough to choose this path, we’re going to need to check your baggage first. If you want to be truly prepared for this life, you first need to have gone through some things.
I won’t say you need to work with a tantrum-prone turbulent narcissist breathing down your neck, eyeing your every move, or that you need to pour with trembling hands and high blood pressure, again and again and again, until one day the shaking stops (it’s great practice though). I won’t say you need to wash dishes for three months before you touch the espresso machine. Or that you need to have dealt with threats and racist behaviors from your regulars – regulars whom you thought you could trust. I won’t say you need to have been yelled at or lectured in front of the team or in front of guests, so as to be made an example out of. But I would also be lying if I said I haven’t been inclined to agree with this old-school idea that you need to “pay your dues” and collect your battle scars. I’ve caught myself torn between giving green baristas a smooth, painless first-coffee-job-experience vs demanding them to build up tough skin, grit, and nerves of steel. Resilience, as some would like to call it.
Many of us veterans have adopted the lie that abuse and a toxic work environment are the most effective ways to develop resilience. It’s the “seasoning” that make us seasoned service workers. Trial by fire. Deep down inside, we know it’s wrong but we’ve already internalized the belief and it shows. We’re convinced by the idea that others must go through what we went through in order to undergo growth, which not only justifies, but encourages, hazing. It creates a culture of exclusivity and hierarchy – ideal conditions for ego and toxic masculinity to fester. But what’s perhaps most problematic about the notion that trauma makes us stronger is that it signals that we’ve succumbed to the status quo and it douses any hope that things can, and should, be different. We place the onus on the individual to be bulletproof, rather than the institutions and people that perpetuate the harm.
The industry can be a punishing place, some areas more than others. As a barista, I consider myself lucky. The thought of other service workers who work many times harder than I do for a fraction of the privileges commands a unique form of respect in me. If we are to stay here for the long run (and esp. if we want to start a business), we need grit. But I want to believe that there is another way. Another path to growth, one that doesn’t involve being put under crushing pressure and pushed to our limits until our spirits break and we question everything about ourselves. Another way to build character that doesn’t require others to endure abuse and just “tough it out”. When I train others to build up their armor, am I preparing them for the real world? Or am I simply becoming a part of the problem?
Resilience is not a trophy. It’s not something to be flexed, like how we humble brag about how little sleep we got, or how we didn’t take a lunch break, or how we romanticize our pain to feel like we’re hard and badass. It is not attention-seeking or ego-stroking. Trauma doesn’t prepare us for the hospitality industry, I’d wager it actually does the opposite; it renders our hearts brittle and stingy on compassion. Resilience, more often than not, signals to us that something terribly wrong has happened. Resilience is a response to a world writhing in pain, to systems that exploit and fail us, to relationships that tenderly devastate us. Resilience is a reaction to loss.
When I started my last job, I let myself dream again. I gave myself permission to be passionate; to work through my fears of caring deeply about something. To start a business is a frightening endeavor, not only because of its tremendous financial toll, but also because it is my personal exercise on hope. To open up a coffeeshop is to take up space – to make a statement that things ought to be different. It’s to push against the tide that almost drowned you; to make it such that others don’t have to tread those same waters again.
I don’t know when, where, or how I’m going to open up a coffeeshop; I don’t know every detail and I don’t think I will ever know. I won’t ever really be ready. But I know that my dream coffeeshop will be a little experiment on resilience, my personal (slightly reckless) gamble on the surmise that crisis doesn’t have to be the only primer for change. It will be a statement that we can cultivate resilience, not only in spaces that are toxic, but in those that are safe. It will be an exploration on mentorship and growth, facilitated not by harmful practices and unhealthy lifestyles, but by curiosity, accountability, and connection. What if our strength was measured by our kindness? What if we could lead with gentleness and empathy?
Resilience goes beyond callousness and losing feeling, it is our bravery in choosing to feel everything again. It’s letting ourselves hurt. It is our decision to work through our emotions, rather than to suppress them, and it is a decision we will need to make every time. Resilience exposes our inherent human potential, it is a cry from the depths of ourselves: you are already strong enough.
some lil things I’m proud of so far:
created a coffee program for a young but ambitious coffee company in berkeley. it’s an irreplaceable feeling, being a core player in a team that is hungry, despite not knowing much or having much experience. nothing like that first time.
learned the 101’s of roasting and led a small but mighty team in learning roasting science, palate development, cupping, and shipping out hundreds of coffee a week.
slowly but surely worked through my fears of socializing to now being pretty comfortable on reg (still workin on it!)
got really good at unclogging toilets mid-rush
learned how to make my ideal cortado (which is the drink that swooned me into the coffee world in the first place)
worked through the worst of the pandemic (all of 2020, most of 2021)
took six months off from coffee to let myself cry and go to therapy and try other things (including writing and cooking!)
started pouring okay rosettas
put my leadership skills to the test working as the gm of two of spro’s locations. trained and led some of the city’s most hard-working, high-caliber baristas. learned some of the ins-and-outs of running a business and how to serve your team, which is the best part. your team is the best part!!!!! always, always be for your team, no matter what.
competed in my first throwdown (ESOM san francisco ‘22) and got 4th place!
really put myself out there in the coffee world and gained a community in return. it’s been lovely meeting you all.
put in my application for my first coffeefest latte art world championship this upcoming august! waiting to hear back but already having the time of my life practicing and putting so much effort into a silly thing. feels like the nostalgic thrill of high school team sports.
…
Here’s to another five years.
thank you.
Your reflections are always so poetic, refreshing & inspiring!! Very profound take on resilience in the workplace. Pumped to see your experiment come to life in the future!