I only started drinking coffee when I began full-time work.
I was 22, and I’d just moved to Melbourne; a destination coffee pilgrims consider as a holy site. Its tucked-away lanes and suburban streets are packed with cafes. It’s common to find a young, tattooed barista pumping out pour-overs, lattes, flat whites, and fancy filtered coffee.
I became a coffee snob. It was the first time I had enough disposable income to get one (or three) cups per day from the overpriced cafe across the road.
A few years later, however, when I decided to sail the Mississippi, I was no longer working full-time, so I needed to save every penny.
In a moment—literally overnight—I switched to instant coffee. I still got my caffeine hit every day, but at a 95%+ discount.
In the hidden depths of my mind—because I wasn’t willing to share it publicly—I wore it like a badge of honour. I was proud that I could forego a luxury for a bigger goal.
And although there’s an espresso machine at work (which I use when I’m not social distancing!), at home I still have a jar filled with instant coffee.
I still enjoy the smell and taste, but I also love what it represents. It’s unique to me and my story, and that’s what makes it special.