The Barista Knows My Name (And Other Small Victories)

It’s 9 AM, and I’m sitting in my corner of the coffee shop—yes, I’ve claimed it, fight me—watching the barista slide my usual across the counter with a wink. “Morning, Mandy.” Three words, but damn if they don’t make me feel like I’ve won something.

A week ago, I was freaking out about posting my first blog. Now? I’m freaking out slightly less. Progress isn’t linear, but it’s happening—like how my disaster skirt became a tote bag, or how a flat tire didn’t ruin my week. Baby steps, but they’re mine.

I re-read my last few posts this morning (cringe, but necessary), and here’s what hit me: I’m not just surviving the messy bits anymore—I’m starting to trust them. The vulnerability, the ex-induced Instagram spirals, the curb-side meltdowns—they’re not just chaos. They’re material. Fuel for designs, for writing, for figuring out who I am when no one’s watching.

So yeah, the barista knowing my name is stupidly validating. But the real win? Looking back and realizing I’ve stopped apologizing for taking up space.

xx Mandy

(P.S. He did spell my name wrong on the cup. We’re back to enemies.)