Too Many Cappuccinis

Cold days in Zug have a way of lowering the volume on everything. Zürich pretends to stay efficient, but even there, winter mornings soften the edges. Coats stay on longer. Conversations move slower. No one seems in a hurry to become anything before noon.

My mornings have followed suit. Gentle. Repetitive. Wrapped in scarves and routine. Lately, that routine includes latte art.

Not because I dreamed of it, but because my part-time job requires it.

So I practice. Hearts. Rosettas. Interpretations that only loosely resemble either. And because wasting milk feels irresponsible, I end up drinking far too many cappuccinis. One for technique. One for adjustment. One because it’s already there and it would be rude not to. By mid-morning, I’m caffeinated, mildly jittery, and emotionally invested in foam that will disappear in under a minute.

There’s something ironic about it. Pouring care into something designed to vanish.

And somewhere between cup number three and four, my thoughts wander to work. Not the job itself, but the obligation of it. The unspoken rule that says you should always have something steady. Something respectable. Something that looks good when people ask what you’re doing these days.

Even if it quietly drains you.

Because here’s the uncomfortable truth no one really prepares you for. You can do everything “right” and still feel deeply wrong about how you spend your days. You can show up, perform, be reliable, and still feel that dull, persistent weight of doing something you don’t love.

And then there’s that quote. The one that refuses to stay quiet:

You can fail at what you don’t like, so you might as well try what you love.

Annoying in its simplicity. Inconvenient in its accuracy.

Because failing at something you don’t care about feels especially cruel. You’re tired, dissatisfied, and you don’t even get fulfillment in return. Just the lingering sense that your time went somewhere it didn’t want to go.

So lately, I’ve been trying to shift my loyalty. Not recklessly. Not dramatically. But intentionally.

I write whenever I can. Sometimes it’s this blog. Sometimes scripts. Sometimes slow, careful pages of the book I’m working on. Progress is quiet. The pace is unglamorous. But it brings me contentment. And joy. And a sense of alignment that no amount of perfectly steamed milk ever has.

The social script tells us to keep the job. Be grateful. Don’t complain. Fulfillment can wait. But winter mornings in Zug and Zürich have a way of making waiting feel heavier.

So I drink another cappuccino. I practice another pour. I write another sentence. I remind myself that just because something is socially acceptable doesn’t mean it’s personally sustainable.

And if failing is inevitable, I’d rather fail at something that feels like mine.