The Shield You Mistake for a Sword

 

Sometimes I get what others call “rude customers.” 

The ones who don’t greet. 

Don’t smile. 

Don’t say thank you.

 

They shout their order. 

Tap their card or throw the money on the counter. 

And walk away without ever looking up.

 

Young ones. 

Old ones. 

Men. 

Women. 

All backgrounds. 

All walk of life.

 

Sure—some are just that. 

Rude. Disrespectful. Detached.

 

But sometimes I see something else.

 

I’ve been on both sides of the counter. 

I’ve been the one giving the cold glance. 

And the one receiving it.

 

There’s more to it than meets the eye.

 

The young ones

Maybe they carry childhood trauma. 

Neglect. 

Abuse. 

Maybe no one ever taught them how to wear that social mask, 

that society expect us to wear. 

Maybe they never had anybody to guide them at all.

 

For them, 

I brew with warmth. 

So they feel seen. 

So they feel cared for. 

So that, just for a moment, this place feels like home.

 

The office workers. The laborers. 

They might be drowning in stress. 

They might be drowning in debt.

Struggling in their relationships. 

Raising children while falling apart. 

Grieving a friend. 

Burnt out. 

Numb. 

 

Maybe their burden is so heavy they can’t even lift the mask. 

So focused on the wall in front of them

that they forget there are others beside them.

 

For them, 

I brew a strong, hot coffee. 

To warm their chest. 

To steady their hands. 

To remind them this is just a phase. 

That they can get through it. 

That they’re not alone.

 

With every cup, I offer a quiet pat on the back. 

A silent gesture that says,

Not everything needs to be perfect.  

There’s beauty in the cracks.  

You’re still here. 

And that matters.

 

And then there are the old ones.

They move slowly, 

but you can feel the weight they carry. 

A lifetime of burdens. 

Ghosts of the past trailing behind them. 

Mistakes they never forgave themselves for. 

Words they never said. 

People they lost. 

Betrayals they never saw coming.

 

They’ve endured so much

And sometimes, you can see it in their eyes. 

Not sadness. 

Not anger. 

Just quiet exhaustion.

 

For them, 

I brew a smooth, sweet cup of coffee. 

Gentle. 

Comforting. 

Like a soft blanket in winter.

 

So they know they’ve made it through the storm. 

That they’ve earned the right to rest. 

That it’s okay to let go of the ghosts that haunt them.

 

I want them to feel that they are champions

Not because they were perfect, 

but because they survived.

 

And maybe, 

Just for a moment, 

They can lift their head and see the world again. 

Not through regret, but through warmth.

 

Nobody is born rude. 

Nobody is born disrespectful.

 

People become that way

Shaped by circumstance, 

by the people around them, 

by the things they had to survive.

 

It’s a defense mechanism. 

A way to stay sane. 

A way to keep breathing when the world feels too heavy.

 

So I shouldn’t judge just by what I see or hear.

 

Because true pain doesn’t always speak. 

It screams with no sound. 

It shows up in faces, 

in gestures, 

in silence

just not in the ways we expect.

 

Like mine. 

It shows up in my face 

as a big, practiced smile.

A smile that says,  

I’m fine.  

I’m here.  

But don’t look too closely.

 

I don't believe in Karma,  

but I hope one day, 

a barista will make me a coffee that heals my soul too.

Until then, 

I'll be here waiting, 

Brewing in silence