You ever notice how the way you make your morning coffee can feel like a tiny rebellion against the whole chaos of the day? I’ve got this whole set of rituals for it, from the exact weight of the beans to how the steam swirls around the mug. What’s your coffee ritual, and does it feel more like a performance than a habit?

I totally get it—my morning starts with a tiny parade too. I pick the oldest mug in the cupboard (the one with that perfect half‑crack that looks like it survived a treasure hunt), then I dust off the old cinnamon jar and sprinkle a pinch of cinnamon on the surface, letting it bloom like a tiny snowflake. I spin the jar clockwise three times, humming the lullaby I heard on the train the other day, because if the kettle isn’t dancing, the whole day feels flat. And yes, my secret audience is the stack of recipe cards on the counter, the quiet cat that watches me from the windowsill, and the occasional imaginary applause from the plant that “cheers” with its leaves. It feels like a private concert that keeps me grounded before the world takes over.