By the time Friday arrives, I am usually running on quiet determination. Deadlines blur into each other. Sketchbooks stay open too late. Coffee becomes a necessity rather than a pleasure. The week stretches itself thin, and so do I. Yet all week, I think about one small thing—my Friday order.Â
Some people count down to weekend nights out. I count down to a bagel and a coffee. It isn’t extravagant. There are no reservations, no elaborate plans, no carefully curated outfits for the occasion. Still, it is a ritual. One small pause that keeps me grounded when everything else feels in motion. All the hard work suddenly feels worth it when the scent of caffeine and warm bread meets me around noon, usually under a forgiving patch of Seattle light. Once a week, I let myself stop. I take inventory of what I’ve finished instead of what still waits. The sketches are completed. The seams pressed. The deadline was met. I mark the moment with an Einstein bagel and a Starbucks cup, punctuation at the end of my week. A quiet acknowledgement that I made it here.Â
Some people might find it strange that I reward myself with food and coffee. But I like thinking of caffeine as something earned, not automatic; a pleasure, not a crutch. A small act of care disguised as routine. Over time, I’ve turned ordering into a quiet game with myself. Every week, a new combination. A small experiment, a gentle push beyond familiarity. I enjoy having something predictable that still leaves room for surprise. Some weeks, I choose boldly. Other weeks, cautiously. I might not love every order, but I learn something each time. About my preferences. My moods. My willingness to try.Â
It feels like collecting small versions of myself. What does Shelby look like with an iced caramel macchiato? With a hot peppermint mocha? With oat milk instead of regular? In truth, mostly the same. But the choice matters anyway. It gives me permission to experiment. To trust that the world does not collapse when I do something differently than I did last week. The ritual teaches me, quietly, that change is survivable. It starts with a drink. But maybe next week it will be a new haircut. A new class. A new direction. And when that time comes, I’ll remember: I’ve done this before. I’ve chosen differently. I’ve been fine. Of course, like everyone else, I have a safe choice. An everything bagel with extra cream cheese. A caramel macchiato, cold against my fingers. Familiar. Reliable. Comforting in the best way. It tastes like how this all began. Like a girl searching for something small to look forward to and finding solace in routine. Like proof that even in the busiest weeks, there is room for softness.Â
And of course, it isn’t really about lunch. It’s about marking survival. Even when things don’t go perfectly. Even when projects unravel. Even when motivation flickers. Making it to Friday is still an accomplishment. A simple bagel and coffee give me permission to reflect, to reset, to close the chapter on whatever the week held. On those afternoons, the city always feels quieter. Rain-speckled windows. Slower sidewalks. Muted conversations drifting through cafes. I sat with Seattle as my witness and my only companion for an hour, and somehow, I’ve never felt more seen.Â
No matter what waits for me in the coming weeks, I know I’ll still be here. Unwrapping my bagel. Cradling my cup. Watching the world pass. Next week, I’ll choose something different. My ritual will grow with me. And the city will continue to bear witness. Everyone has that one thing that gets them through the week. This one is mine.Â