on baristas

this morning, rachel told me she was leaving. four years, and now she’s off to corporate.

she mentioned it so casually, like she was telling me about some new seasonal drink on the menu. “so yeah, today’s my last day.” like she hadn’t, for years, been the steady hands that started my days—two shots, light ice, extra almond milk. “i finally got a big girl job.” she laughed. when i first started coming here, it took her only two visits to learn my name. tomorrow, i’ll be nobody’s regular.

i hadn’t realized how much rachel had come to anchor my mornings. in a city built on transience—where leases are short, gigs are shorter, and neighborhoods gentrify overnight—she felt like a breath of permanence. every day but tuesdays and sundays, there she was: rachel, with her red hair, fine-line tattoos, glasses on mornings she hadn’t slept much, standing behind the counter, pulling the same shot, offering the same half-smile.

it feels silly, i know, to grieve a barista. a person i never saw outside of plastic cups and the whirr of grinders. but there’s something to be said about people who show up for you, even if it’s just setting aside a croissant when they know you’re running late or handing you napkins before you realize you need them. rachel didn’t just make coffee—she bore witness to my life, alchemizing something routine into something sacred.

our conversations were always brief. two or three minutes tops. once, she told me she liked punk rock. another time, i shared my disdain of sprouts. most days, we said very little. “the usual?” i’d nod. she’d hand my drink over. “thanks so much.” “have a good day.” “you too.”

we didn’t know each other’s middle names or childhood fears; we never shared about pets or parents or the people we texted when we couldn’t sleep. yet she saw more of my daily self than most people i call close friends. she saw me sleepy and sharp, triumphant and defeated, rushing and dawdling. she knew me before caffeine, which is to say, she knew me at my truest.

without even realizing it, rachel and i built a familiarity out of these brief, routine encounters, constructed a kind of intimacy from the simple act of showing up. i think we often underestimate how vital consistency is. we so long for depth in our relationships, those shared secrets in parked cars and tearful confessions at 2 a.m., that we sometimes forget the necessity of breadth. of longevity. of just being there, over and over again.

i think of how she memorized my schedule without ever asking, how she could tell by my outfit whether i had a meeting or an audition that day. on mornings when i looked particularly frazzled, she’d slide an extra shot into my cup, and when i tried to tip her extra, she’d just shake her head and say, “that’s not fair.” this is what steadfast presence offers: the privilege of being seen without explanation, understood without declaration.

in an age where everything feels disposable—messages left on read, plans canceled with a shrug, friendships ghosted under the guise of self-care—perhaps the most radical thing we can do is to show up. time and time again. to endure across seasons and moods, through chaos and calm, bringing whatever wholeness or brokenness we can muster.

maybe presence is its own kind of language, consistency its grammar. maybe the most profound connections aren’t forged through grand gestures, but from the accumulated weight of ordinary moments, the patient construction of trust with the people who stay. the ones there long enough to notice when your hair’s a bit longer, your voice a little more tired, when your coffee order’s changed.

tomorrow morning, 6:15, i’ll go and order from someone new. i’ll smile and say thank you. i’ll leave with a drink in hand, wishing someone still knew my name.