🍵 Matcha Moments: A Toast to Every Café Experience

Some people bring back souvenirs from their travels.

I bring back coffee memories, barista trauma,and one too many Instagram drafts.

Let me explain.
(Because clearly, I’ve made this my entire personality.)

I used to drink coffee to survive.
Now I drink it to remember.
(And also still to survive — let’s not get carried away with the sentimentality.)

Corporate Coffee Wasn’t Cute

Back in corporate Sydney, younger me ran on caffeine and chaos.

Fellowship exams. Sleepless nights. Imposter syndrome with a side of buzzwords.
Coffee wasn’t a luxury. It was a coping mechanism. Iced long black, year-round. No milk. No sugar. No joy.

Just get the espresso in me and back away slowly.

Most mornings began the same:

Me, semi-conscious, rolling into Circular Quay Station like a hungover ghost who never even got to party.

It was cold. It was dark. The kind of tired where blinking felt aggressive and stairs were a personal attack.

Still, I had hope — thin, fragile hope — that coffee would make it better.

So I shuffled toward the café by the station exit, mentally negotiating whether I had the will to stand upright in a queue.

And then — disaster.

The barista looked up. Made eye contact. Smiled. And waved.

“Morning!” she chirped, already reaching for a cup. “Your usual?”

I froze.

“Uhh… I haven’t ordered yet.”
“Yeah you have. Iced long black, no sugar — this one’s yours.”

😳 I was horrified.

This was no longer a casual caffeine transaction.
This was personal.

She had seen me. Recognised me. And — worst of all — remembered me.

Absolutely not.

I walked away with my coffee, yes.
But also with the realisation that I had a signature order. That I was predictable. That somewhere in Sydney, there was a barista who could draw my face from memory and label it:

“Iced Long Black Girl, Definitely Not Okay.”

The Moment That Changed It

And then… Port Macquarie happened.

Not on purpose. Not in a find yourself on the road kind of way.

I was driving back to Sydney to close off my corporate chapter. I couldn’t fly — something about limited flights and a fragile grip on reality — so I drove a thousand kilometres on two iced long blacks and blind optimism.

For everyone’s safety, I stopped overnight in Port Macquarie.

The hotel? Tragic.
The bed? Spiritually offensive.
The neighbours? Peeing. All. Night. Long.

At the crack of dawn — not because I was rested, but because I had nothing left to give — I went for a walk.

And that’s when I found it.
A tiny coffee shop, quietly open. No music, no line, no pretentious signage.

I grabbed an iced long black and wandered to the beach.
The wind slapped me like it had opinions.

It was freezing.
It was quiet.
The smell of fresh espresso mingled with salt air.

I sat on the sand and sipped slowly, watching the steam rise off my breath.

Across the beach, I saw them — a little group outside the café with their mugs, laughing.

It wasn’t the coffee. It was the camaraderie. The ease. The low-stakes joy.

And in that moment, something shifted.
Coffee stopped being my survival juice.

It became a ritual. A reminder.

A little “you are here” — not in the GPS sense, but in the you’re still standing sense.

And for once… I wasn’t Iced Long Black Girl, Definitely Not Okay.
I was just okay.

Why Iced Long Black?

Let’s be honest — I didn’t start here.

I was an iced soy latte girlie.

That era of almond milk debates. Of barista eye rolls and emotional damage.

But when I bought my first coffee machine, I was too lazy to keep buying soy milk.

So I downgraded (or upgraded?) to espresso and water. No frills. No foam.

Eventually, I got used to it.
Then I liked it.
Then I couldn’t go back.

It’s a one-way street, my friend.

Milk? Never heard of her.
(She’s probably hanging out with Emotional Stability and Proper Boundaries.)

Why Decaf Iced Long Black?

Because once upon a time, coffee had to do something.

Keep me awake. Keep me going. Help me fake being functional.

But now? I ration the real stuff.
My single caffeinated cup is reserved for protein bar hour.

The rest? It’s for vibes.

I drink decaf now the way people light candles.
For ambience. For comfort. For the emotional equivalent of a soft blanket and zero notifications.

Smell, after all, is the most emotionally manipulative of the senses.

Coriander? A hate crime.
But coffee? Coffee smells like the mornings I want to relive — minus the trauma.

There’s science behind that, apparently.
But I’m not here to cite sources.
I’m here to sip feelings.

📍 So Here’s the Plan

Every three cafés I visit, I’ll write.

Not to rate. Not to review.
But to remember.

Because cafés aren’t just where we drink coffee — they’re where we feel things.

And we’re starting in Brisbane CBD.

Because meaning doesn’t have to be in the milestones.
Sometimes, it’s in the mundane. The overlooked. The automatic.

☕ One coffee.
☕ One café.
☕ Three memories at a time.

Let’s sip. 🍵🥶