Dark Roast: The Strength We Grow Into

I wouldn't offer her a sweet latte or a safe cup of tea if I could sit across from my younger self at a quiet café table with the scent of roast beans and soft regrets filling the air. I would serve her a dark roast. She probably would look at it suspiciously, curious, cautious, and unsure if she is prepared for it. I used to prefer simple, sweet things when I was younger. She avoided bitterness in life and coffee alike. She craved comfort, predictability, and approval. She did not yet comprehend that the most meaningful flavors in life are not always sweet and that depth comes with discomfort. Like the person I became, dark roast coffee is bold, intense, and shaped by fire. It has endured the heat. Dark roast beans are roasted for a longer time—until their sugars caramelize and their flavors deepen into rich, earthy, smoky notes—in contrast to lighter roasts, which are less acidic and have flavors that are brighter and more delicate. It's thought by some to be too bitter. Too strong. However, I now appreciate what it represents. To accept complexity is to drink dark roast. To acknowledge that something's beauty lies not in its perfection but rather in its resilience. And so, if I were to hand my younger self that cup, I’d do so with a small smile and a quiet truth: This is who you’re becoming.

She was afraid of being "too much" back then. too quiet, too emotional, too intense, and too unsure. To fit in, she tried to drink less. smiled more often than she intended. expressed regret for her own existence. If someone had described her as “bold,” she might’ve laughed—because bold, in her mind, was reserved for the loud ones, the fearless ones, the people who always knew what they were doing.

However, not all boldness shouts. Bold sits silently with its scars at times. Boldness sometimes chooses truth over comfort, grace over approval, and depth over decoration. That’s what I’d want her to know.

Some people aren't fans of dark roast. It takes some getting used to. But once you get used to it, you start to want it. You start to see the richness beneath the bitterness and stop flinching at it. When you stop trying to be someone you're not, that's exactly what happens. I would tell her that she will make errors. That life will become chaotic. that some people will leave, and that not everything will make sense immediately. But she will be fine because she faced the difficult things, not because she avoided them. because she allowed herself to be altered without being wiped out. She will be roasted but not destroyed, just like the beans in the fire. She will also, over time, become someone who is aware of her worth. someone who is unrepentant about taking up space. someone who has fire in their voice but speaks softly. someone who knows that strength is not bitterness but depth and drinks her coffee black. It's accepting that others may never fully comprehend. Even if she takes one sip, she might still hesitate. Might blush at the daring. However, I would tell her, "Give it time. You weren't meant to be sweet and straightforward forever. You were created to be tough. Grounded. Deep.”

We would enjoy our dark roast for a while in that peaceful café. I would allow her to inquire. I would consider her worries. I would reassure her that it is acceptable to be uncertain and that confidence is earned, cup by cup, day by day. I'd also leave her with the following before we parted ways: Don't be afraid of changing into something more. Don't be afraid to approach the fire. Allow it to roast you. Allow it to alter you. And when you look back on your life in the future, you'll realize that your strength, soul, and story all taste a lot like dark roast—strong, complex, and beautifully you.

Thank you for reding.