This morning I almost cried over a coffee mug, not because of anything dramatic. It was just because it slipped.
I was standing in my kitchen, at the sink, still in my pajamas, the light barely coming through the San Francisco fog outside. The house was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the low, grumpy gurgle of the espresso maker warming up the water. I remember thinking how that sound felt like permission to start the day. I reached for my favorite mug—the chipped white one with the faded red rim—and my hand was still damp from washing it. It slid. Not a cinematic crash. Just a dull clunk against the counter, a wobble, and then—down.
It didn’t shatter. But the handle snapped clean off.
I stood there staring at it on the kitchen floor, heart thudding like I’d dropped something irreplaceable. Which, I guess, I had. It’s the mug I use when I need comfort. It's the one that fits perfectly in my hand, the one that has witnessed deadlines, grief, laughter, illness, recovery, love, and those early mornings when I had to convince myself to try again.
I actually said, out loud, “Oh, come on,” like the universe had personally targeted my coffee ritual.
In the house next door, I heard someone start the shower and flush the toilet. I heard pipes rattling, a constant reminder that all the houses in our neighborhood touch one another on both sides. A car alarm chirped outside. Life continued, unimpressed with my small tragedy. I crouched down, picked up the mug in one hand and the broken handle in the other. The break was clean, almost neat. For a second I considered gluing it. For another second, I felt ridiculous for even caring this much. It's a mug...
What happened next is what surprised me: I suddenly realized that I wasn’t upset about the mug. I realized that I was ever so tired. The kind of tired that sneaks up quietly. The past 4 months of writing the insurance companies letters and contacting COOs and state health departments in order to reverse my husband's denied surgery coverage was wearing me down slowly. The broken handle just cracked open that feeling.
So I made a choice. I poured the coffee into a plain glass instead, a clear bartender's shaking glass. It felt wrong—too hot to hold comfortably, too transparent. I could see the swirl of cream settling. I wrapped both hands around it anyway and stood by the living room window.
The fog was lifting a little. The sky was slowly deciding to be blue. I realized something small but steady: the coffee still tasted the same. The day didn’t collapse. The world didn’t punish me for breaking something. I can lose a handle and still hold what matters most closest to my heart.
I rinsed the broken mug pieces and set them on the counter. Maybe I’ll glue it. Maybe I won’t. Either way, I drank my coffee. I breathed in the steam. I watched the light change, and I carried on with my day, with my head up.
Ordinary morning.
One broken handle.
And somehow, a tiny reminder that I’m allowed to be fragile and still function.
That felt like enough.
Sincerely,
KJ Landis
@superiorself on Instagram and X
@SuperiorSelf channel on YouTube
@superiorselfwithkjlandis on TikTok
[email protected]
Books available everywhere!
I was standing in my kitchen, at the sink, still in my pajamas, the light barely coming through the San Francisco fog outside. The house was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the low, grumpy gurgle of the espresso maker warming up the water. I remember thinking how that sound felt like permission to start the day. I reached for my favorite mug—the chipped white one with the faded red rim—and my hand was still damp from washing it. It slid. Not a cinematic crash. Just a dull clunk against the counter, a wobble, and then—down.
It didn’t shatter. But the handle snapped clean off.
I stood there staring at it on the kitchen floor, heart thudding like I’d dropped something irreplaceable. Which, I guess, I had. It’s the mug I use when I need comfort. It's the one that fits perfectly in my hand, the one that has witnessed deadlines, grief, laughter, illness, recovery, love, and those early mornings when I had to convince myself to try again.
I actually said, out loud, “Oh, come on,” like the universe had personally targeted my coffee ritual.
In the house next door, I heard someone start the shower and flush the toilet. I heard pipes rattling, a constant reminder that all the houses in our neighborhood touch one another on both sides. A car alarm chirped outside. Life continued, unimpressed with my small tragedy. I crouched down, picked up the mug in one hand and the broken handle in the other. The break was clean, almost neat. For a second I considered gluing it. For another second, I felt ridiculous for even caring this much. It's a mug...
What happened next is what surprised me: I suddenly realized that I wasn’t upset about the mug. I realized that I was ever so tired. The kind of tired that sneaks up quietly. The past 4 months of writing the insurance companies letters and contacting COOs and state health departments in order to reverse my husband's denied surgery coverage was wearing me down slowly. The broken handle just cracked open that feeling.
So I made a choice. I poured the coffee into a plain glass instead, a clear bartender's shaking glass. It felt wrong—too hot to hold comfortably, too transparent. I could see the swirl of cream settling. I wrapped both hands around it anyway and stood by the living room window.
The fog was lifting a little. The sky was slowly deciding to be blue. I realized something small but steady: the coffee still tasted the same. The day didn’t collapse. The world didn’t punish me for breaking something. I can lose a handle and still hold what matters most closest to my heart.
I rinsed the broken mug pieces and set them on the counter. Maybe I’ll glue it. Maybe I won’t. Either way, I drank my coffee. I breathed in the steam. I watched the light change, and I carried on with my day, with my head up.
Ordinary morning.
One broken handle.
And somehow, a tiny reminder that I’m allowed to be fragile and still function.
That felt like enough.
Sincerely,
KJ Landis
@superiorself on Instagram and X
@SuperiorSelf channel on YouTube
@superiorselfwithkjlandis on TikTok
[email protected]
Books available everywhere!
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