Latest / Still Standing: Stories of Resilience, Survival & Strength / Why Brewing Coffee Slowly Is The Radical Act You Need Today | Still Standing
Transcript
- You are rushing through your morning like you’re trying to outrun the day itself. But what if the most radical thing you could do right now was to simply stop, and let the water hit the grounds? Take a breath with me. Just one. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Good. Now, picture your usual morning. It’s probably a blur of alarm clocks, cold floors, and the frantic search for keys. You’re already behind before you’ve even had your first sip. You grab whatever coffee is within arm's reach—maybe it’s that instant stuff from last week, or maybe it’s a pod you don’t even remember buying—and you chug it standing up. You’re drinking caffeine like it’s medicine, not joy. And honestly? I used to be exactly like you. For years, my mornings were a series of tasks completed in the fastest time possible. I treated my body like a machine that needed fuel to keep running, ignoring the fact that machines can be maintained with care, too. But here’s the thing about rushing: it steals the texture of life. When you rush, everything becomes background noise. The steam rising from your cup? Gone. The smell of roasted beans? Overpowered by the scent of anxiety. We live in a culture that praises speed. Fast food, fast fashion, fast replies. We’re told that efficiency is virtue and slowness is laziness. But I want to invite you to consider a different idea today. What if slowing down isn’t laziness at all? What if it’s actually an act of rebellion? A quiet, gentle rebellion against a world that wants you to be productive before you’ve even opened your eyes. Let’s sit in that for a second. Think about the ritual of brewing coffee slowly. I’m not talking about having the most expensive espresso machine in the kitchen. I’m talking about the intentionality of the process. When you grind the beans yourself, you hear the crunch. It’s a sound that demands attention. You watch the water heat up, seeing those tiny bubbles form on the surface of the kettle. You wait. You don’t rush the pour. You let the water bloom the grounds, watching them expand and release their gases, just like we need to release our own tension before we can truly engage with the day. This isn’t just about making a beverage. It’s about claiming five minutes where you belong entirely to yourself. No phone. No emails. No mental checklists. Just you, the water, and the coffee. In those moments, you are practicing presence. You are saying to your nervous system, 'It is safe to slow down. It is safe to pay attention.' And that matters more than you might realize. When we move through our days in a state of high alert, our bodies stay in fight-or-flight mode. We carry that stress into our meetings, our conversations, our relationships. But this small ritual of slowness signals safety. It tells your brain that you are not being chased. You are simply making coffee. There is a profound dignity in that. It reminds us that we are human beings, not human doings. I want to ask you something gentle, but important. What did that cost you? What did the constant rushing cost you? Think back to the last time you sat down for a meal without checking your notifications. Think back to the last time you looked at the sky instead of your screen. How long has it been? For me, it was years. I spent so much of my corporate life treating my morning routine as an obstacle to clear as quickly as possible. I wanted to get to the work, get to the answers, get to the next thing. But in doing so, I missed the beginning of my day. I missed the chance to set a tone. I missed the chance to feel grounded before the chaos started. And I think many of us have done the same. We treat our rituals as interruptions rather than foundations. We apologize for taking time to make ourselves breakfast, or to stretch, or to breathe. But when we strip away the rituals that ground us, we leave ourselves exposed to the current of the day. We become driftwood, swept along by whatever happens to come our way. But when we anchor ourselves in a slow, intentional practice, we create a center. We create a place to return to, no matter how wild the rest of the day gets. That center is yours. It doesn’t belong to your boss, or your family, or your inbox. It belongs to you. Let’s talk about the senses, because they are your anchors back to the present moment. When you brew coffee slowly, you engage every sense available to you. The aroma hits you first—that rich, earthy scent that feels like a hug from the inside out. Then comes the sound of the water pouring, a steady hiss that fills the silence. The warmth of the mug in your hands, grounding your palms. The taste, which should never be rushed. Notice how bitter it is, or sweet, or smooth. These sensory details are often ignored, but they are vital. They pull you out of your head and into your body. Our minds love to wander to the past or worry about the future. They love to replay conversations we wish we’d handled differently or rehearse arguments we hope will happen. But your senses only exist in the now. By focusing on the smell of the coffee, the heat of the ceramic, the sound of the pour, you force your mind to stay here. Right now. This moment. This cup. It’s a form of meditation, but it doesn’t require sitting cross-legged on a cushion. It requires only a kettle and some beans. And it works. I’ve found that on the hardest days, when my anxiety is spiking and my thoughts are racing, coming back to the physical act of making coffee brings me back to earth. It reminds me that I am alive, I am warm, and I am capable of creating something beautiful from simple ingredients. Now, I know what you might be thinking. 'Marissa, I don’t have time for this. I have kids, I have a job, I have a million things to do.' And I hear you. Life is heavy. Responsibilities pile up. But I want to remind you of what we talked about in a previous episode about the art of public failure. We learned that perfection is a trap. It paralyzes us. We don’t need a perfect morning ritual to benefit from it. We don’t need the right kind of beans, or the perfect grinder, or a sunlit kitchen. We just need intention. If you spill the grounds, let it be. If you burn the toast, eat it anyway. If you only have thirty seconds to pour the water, do it with love. The goal isn’t aesthetic perfection. The goal is connection. Connection to yourself. To the process. To the gift of nourishment. Progress in resilience isn’t about getting it right every time. It’s about returning to the practice again and again, even when it’s messy. Even when you’re tired. Especially when you’re tired. Because that’s when you need it most. Your nervous system is screaming for relief. Give it to yourself. Don’t wait for the weekend. Don’t wait for the vacation. Start today. Start with one cup. Make it slow. Make it yours. Let it be imperfect. Let it be real. That is where the magic lives. Not in the highlight reel, but in the quiet, unglamorous moments of showing up for yourself. Think of this ritual as a gift to your future self. Every morning you take these few minutes to slow down, you are investing in your capacity to handle the day ahead. You are building resilience, not through grand gestures, but through small, consistent acts of kindness toward yourself. You are teaching your brain that you are worth the time. You are worth the attention. You are worth the care. And that belief seeps into everything else you do. When you respect your own time, others begin to respect it too. When you honor your own needs, you become better equipped to support others without burning out. It’s a ripple effect. One slow morning leads to a calmer afternoon. A calmer afternoon leads to a more patient evening. An evening filled with less resentment and more presence. It sounds simple, almost too simple to be true. But simplicity is often the most powerful tool we have. We complicate our lives with unnecessary noise. We add layers of expectation and pressure until we can barely see the ground beneath our feet. Stripping it back down to the basics—the water, the beans, the breath—can be incredibly liberating. It frees up space for joy. For clarity. For peace. You don’t need to change your whole life to find meaning. You just need to change how you start your day. So, here is my invitation to you. Tomorrow morning, try it. Just once. Set your alarm five minutes earlier if you have to. Or wake up ten minutes later. Create the space. Grind the beans if you can. Watch the water boil. Pour slowly. Feel the warmth. Taste deeply. And then, carry that feeling with you. Let it be the baseline for your day. When things get chaotic, remember that moment of stillness. Remember that you chose to pause. That you chose to be present. That choice is yours. It always has been. You are stronger than you think, and you are worthy of the gentleness you offer to others. Now, offer it to yourself. Take a breath with me. Feel the weight of your body in the chair. Hear the sounds around you. Smell the air. You are here. You are enough. And you are not alone. We are all navigating this together, one slow sip at a time. Thank you for letting me share this quiet moment with you. I hope you feel a little lighter, a little more grounded, and a lot more loved. Until next time, keep breathing, keep brewing, and keep standing. Take good care of yourself today. I’ll be here tomorrow with another story, another breath, and another reminder that you are doing beautifully, exactly as you are. Bye for now.