If you have ever searched for your glasses while wearing them, left the remote by the toaster, or uttered the phrase, “no worries, I’m just making it up as I go;” then you are probably ready for induction into the Secret Society of Creatives.  

Every creative knows there are two versions of any artistic life: The one people see, and the one lived. There’s what happens on stage, and then there’s everything it took to get there. The late nights, endless rehearsals, caffeine-fueled mornings, unexpected detours, career pivots, lucky breaks, hard lessons, and those unforgettable “how did we survive that?” moments.  

Great conversation and lattes just go together. Last week I had the opportunity to meet and talk with professional editor, proofreader and author Jennie Jolly. Usually, my conversations are fear-free, but I confess the thought of sitting down with someone who professionally fixes words for a living definitely had me on my "read, re-read, and read again toes." 

Somewhere between that first sip of morning coffee and a to-do list that never seems to end, quiet acts of kindness unfold every day in places most of us never see. This is one of those stories.  Last week I had the chance to catch up with Katrinka Rynder, Senior Development Director for Chemo Buddies. From the moment we started talking, I immediately recognized that her connection to the organization didn’t start with a role or a résumé. In fact, at Chemo Buddies, almost everyone has a “before" story. For Katrinka, her “before” story is exactly what makes the work she does today feel less like a position, and more like a calling. 

I love being able to meet up, sit down and talk with people who bring so much to our community. The best part about what I do is getting to share those stories.

My favorite chats often begin the same way, coffee in hand, easy laughter, and no real agenda beyond showing up. That was exactly the vibe a few weeks ago when I sat down with Michele Gates, mom of two kiddos, founder of Mae’s Way Foundation, author, journaling mentor, and contemplative photographer. We met at one of my favorite coffee shops; of course, these days that’s almost always a given. Michele arrived with a friendly smile and an easy presence that made our conversation feel familiar from the start.

This week’s Brewed Awakenings began almost the same way as usual, just without coffee. We opted for a cup of water and a scoop of chicken salad in a diner booth. (No worries, I already had a pot before I left home). It is in moments like these that I’m reminded why I love sitting down with people to talk about what drives, motivates, and inspires them to pursue the work they do and the passion behind it. These conversations have taught me that the path someone takes often matters just as much, if not more, than where they end up. Somewhere between the first sip and the last refill, real talk with real people presents more than a story; it reveals the person. 

You know that moment when you pour a fresh cup of coffee so hot you have to sip it slowly or risk burning your tongue? Then suddenly, you’re interrupted. You set the cup down, just for a minute, and by the time you come back, it’s cold. A small inconvenience, one that happens more often than not. So, you get up, slide the mug into the microwave, and press 1 to reheat. Back to emails, phone calls, projects waiting to be finished. Somewhere along the way, you forget about the coffee altogether. Was it left in the microwave? There it is, press 1 to reheat again. Reheating becomes a habit, a ritual, a daily loop on repeat.

I’ve always been fascinated by the paths people take. How life moves us quietly in different directions, then sometimes circles us back together when we least expect it. Out of nowhere it seemed, Susan and I kept running into each other. Familiar faces in an unfamiliar stretch of years. Eventually, we did what people do when coincidence gets persistent, we made a plan to actually sit down and catch up. That’s how I found myself sitting across from Susan Everett at my favorite coffee spot not long ago. 

Last set, last song, last call. The applause dies quickly. House lights snap on. Someone calls out, “Great set, guys” from somewhere near the door. Onstage, the work begins. Cases, cables, cymbals, and one lowly drum kit waiting to be dismantled piece by piece. In the hollow sound of an empty room, a drummer packs up, hands moving on autopilot, mind running the night back, already thinking about setting it all up again next week.