on coffee as a love language

I start each day with a cup of coffee, and it means a great deal.

It’s both easy to admit that I need coffee, and embarrassing. Embarrassing in that I’m admitting a very common addiction, one that creates headaches and withdrawals if I don’t have my cup of Joe. But it’s also easy to admit because I love it so.

In various times in my life, I’ve been able to take coffee or leave it, banned it totally, had too much, and experienced every other possibility on the spectrum. I’ve changed how I take it over the years from black with too much sugar to keto butter to coconut creamer. Lately it’s half-and-half with a dash of cinnamon.

But no matter what, coffee means more than coffee.

It’s the ritual, not the quantity or even the actual composition of the drink.

I rarely make my own coffee. When my husband was gone for two months a few years ago, I made my own, and I’d set it up the night before so all I needed to do was stumble downstairs, let the dog out, and push the button. But it felt like something was missing—his touch in making it.

Every day, my husband makes coffee, and he makes good coffee, using good quality beans, freshly ground, and lots of them.

Coffee is a love language, I think. It means comfort and being cared for. It means security and having a common, calm start to the morning, rather than immediately delving into chaos. It means taking a moment to myself, that moment is a gift from him.

What is your love language?