I have literally lost count of how many times I’ve burned my hand under a steam wand. Or how many milk pitchers I’ve washed. Or how many times I’ve said, “Name for the order?” only to hear “It’s under Ashley” for the fifth time that day.
Being a barista in Dallas is not the most fashionable job out there. My clothes are constantly smelling og espresso and sanitisers. My back hurts more than it should for my age. There are days when customers treat me like I’m some background noise. And yet I still love this job.
It’s not the pay, I can barely keep up with paying my rent and student loans. It’s not the house either. Some days opening shifts are at 5am, which feels like punishment for something I don’t remember doing. But there’s something deeply human about this work. Something very grounding. I get to see the city getting up. The early morning runner, the nurses just getting off their shift, the start-up guy on his third red-eye day. All of these people come in sleepy, messy hair and puffy eyes, and I get to be the one who hands in their morning calmness and witnesses their relaxation at the first sip of the coffee.
Some days, we barely talk. A nod, a smile, a “thanks.” Other times, I hear pieces of people’s lives: job interviews, breakups, weddings, new babies, lost parents. One woman cried in front of me last week. I didn’t know what to say, so I just handed her an extra cookie. She smiled through her tears and said, “You’re the first person who’s been kind to me today.”
It hit me harder than I expected.
Yeah, maybe this job isn’t just about serving coffee. It’s about giving people five minutes of warmth in a world that’s too cold. Perhaps it’s about remembering someone’s name even if they forget yours. I dont know if I will be doing this forever, but I’m happy to be making this little corner of Dallas feel human again.
Even if my hands are always burned.
