“I Bought a Juicer and Now I’m Basically a Philosopher”

There are two kinds of people in the world: those who juice, and those who roll their eyes at people who juice.

I used to be firmly in the second camp.

“Why would anyone blend a cucumber with a carrot and call it breakfast?” I’d scoff, drinking my third cup of coffee with a side of panic and a bagel that could double as a doorstop.

Then, one fateful Sunday, I walked into a home store with the noble intention of buying one fork (don’t ask). I walked out with a juicer the size of a small lawn mower, a passionfruit-scented candle, and absolutely no fork.

The juicer was on sale. It called to me. Whispered, even.

“You could be someone who glows,” it said.

“You could start your mornings with intention and fiber.”

Reader, I believed it.

Day 1: The Citrus Awakening

I woke up early—early!—to juice. I had lemons. I had oranges. I had one grapefruit that I didn’t know how to emotionally handle.

I peeled, I chopped, I assembled the juicer like I was preparing a NASA rocket. Then I pressed the magic button.

The machine screamed. The kitchen vibrated. Pulp exploded.

But after the chaos, there it was: a golden cup of citrusy promise. I took a sip.

It was… okay. A little bitter. A bit warm. And somehow still had chunks, despite my best efforts. But I felt accomplished. I had created juice. I was now a Juice Person.

Day 2: I Juice, Therefore I Am

Feeling inspired, I went to the store and bought produce I could barely identify. Beets. Kale. Ginger. Something round and suspicious that turned out to be a turnip.

I started juicing with reckless abandon. Carrot-apple-lime. Spinach-pear-ginger. Cucumber-mint-lemon with a dash of delusion.

I took photos. I journaled about it. I even tweeted: “Starting the day with green juice really changes your whole vibe. I can feel my cells hugging.”

No one liked it, but I felt spiritually superior.

Day 3: The Juice Must Flow

By now, I was fully committed. I started wearing linen. I played soft jazz while I juiced. I whispered affirmations to my celery sticks.

But there were side effects.

My trash doubled. My patience halved. I learned that washing a juicer is the emotional equivalent of doing 30 squats in jeans that don’t stretch. That pulp gets into places you didn’t even know existed. That ginger can sneak up on you like an ex in a supermarket—suddenly, violently, and with burning consequences.

Still, I pressed on. I was a juicer now. I was one with the kale.

Day 4: Juice and the Meaning of Life

On the fourth day, as I sipped a carrot-beet concoction that looked like regret but tasted like earthy determination, something strange happened.

I slowed down.

I actually sat at my table, not hunched over my phone. I watched the sunlight dance on the wall. I chewed a piece of pineapple and thought about how weird it is that it looks like a pine cone but grows from the ground.

I felt… calm. Present. Slightly orange around the mouth, but deeply philosophical.

And that’s when I realized: this wasn’t just about juice. This was about paying attention.

Because juicing, for all its chaos and cleanup, forces you to pause. To choose ingredients. To think, What do I want to feel like today? Energized? Grounded? Slightly smug?

It makes you participate in your morning instead of surviving it. It turns breakfast into a choice, not just a reflex.

And isn’t that what we’re all craving? Not just nutrients—but nourishment? Not just routines—but rituals?

Day 5: The Comeback of the Bagel

Now, I’d love to tell you that I’ve juiced every day since. That I now glow like a Himalayan salt lamp and wear robes made of ethically sourced bamboo.

But no.

By Day 5, I missed toast. I missed chewing. I missed my coffee and its caffeinated, slightly judgmental warmth.

So I juiced less. And I chewed more. And I found a middle ground.

Now, I juice sometimes. Not every day. Not to change my life. But to remember that I can.

To remember that I have a body worth fueling, a morning worth savoring, and a kitchen that occasionally smells like beet root and bravery.

So here’s what my juicer taught me:

Trying new things doesn’t have to be forever—sometimes it’s just for the story.

Routines don’t need to be perfect to be meaningful. Juice one day. Pancakes the next. Joy in both.

You are allowed to take silly things seriously—like matching your juice to your mood or giving pep talks to your parsley.

You don’t have to juice. Honestly, it’s a bit much. But find your thing—your version of morning magic.

It could be journaling. Or dancing. Or talking to your cat about global economics while sipping turmeric tea.

Whatever it is, do it not because you’re trying to fix yourself. But because you already like yourself—and this is just another way to show it.

Because every now and then, life calls for something messy, colorful, loud, and a little absurd.

Sometimes, that thing is juice.