The Challenge I Didn’t Think I’d Survive

Sweat beaded on my forehead as I stared at the espresso machine, the metallic hum of steamed milk echoing like a warning siren. The café was packed, a symphony of clinking mugs and gentle conversation. My parents were darting in and out of the kitchen, gracefully managing the chaos as they always did. And me? I was 17 and very much out of my depth. Behind the counter, I was tasked with whipping up orders while juggling an impromptu rendition of “Willow, Fix This Problem.”

The problem? A wrong latte delivered to a very disgruntled customer who insisted soy milk should never, ever froth like that.

For a long time, I thought my proverbial “survive this challenge” moment was this: an accidental barista crash course during busiest-hours-duty at my family’s café. And for years, that seemed true. Throw a frustrated regular my way, and I could pitch you a drama worthy of HBO. Until the day I realized the real test wasn’t juggling lattes or laminated menus. It was heartbreak. Pure, unfiltered, rom-com-turned-tragedy heartbreak — playing out like a Netflix binge I couldn’t log off.

When Fantasy Meets Reality

If you’re asking yourself what’s tougher than surviving a high-volume soy milk incident, allow me to suggest: surviving a relationship you were never ready for. Not because it was ill-timed or toxic or anything that writes itself into those chaotic red-flag memes. But because, in retrospect, I’d entered it without knowing who I was. Plot twist: you can’t successfully be in love when you’re too afraid to excavate your own identity. Turns out, slapping a Band-Aid over the cracks in your sense of self and calling it “us” is a recipe for emotional implosion.

To set the scene, I’d just returned to Vancouver after a year in Melbourne, still carrying that wide-eyed traveler energy. You know the one—thinking a tan and a collection of kangaroo keychains equates to newfound confidence. Melbourne had sold me a dream of freedom: open, sunlit adventures served with espresso and rooftop sunsets. By the time I landed back home, I felt different, or at least like I should feel different. I was itching to manifest the drama of a foreign-city fling into my day-to-day life. Enter: Lee.

Lee had the kind of easy charm that spills over into friendship groups. He was funny—not TikTok-funny but deeply witty, the kind of guy who could slip a devastatingly smart observation into a casual brunch with your friends and have everyone nodding. We clicked. And before I could even begin to unpack my luggage or my layered identity crisis, we’d gone from "grab coffee?" to "let’s pick out furniture."

The indie soundtrack playing overhead was romantic. Until it wasn’t.

The Breakup Nobody Prepares You For

Let me tell you: it didn’t happen in one seismic, cinematic event. No plates were thrown, no teary goodbye speeches that would’ve played well against Canada’s drizzling rain. It was quieter. A slow erosion of “we” into “me again.” Lee wanted me to be happy, but I didn’t know what “happy Willow” looked like—not in the kind of rooted, foundational way you need to know when building towards something real.

Pro tip: the most treacherous ground in a relationship isn’t big fights; it’s the gentle disconnect of someone looking at you like they’re waiting for you to start believing in yourself. And not knowing how.

One day, after umpteen late-night chats full of long pauses and overexplained "I'm fines," we both knew. A breakup was inevitable. A breakup, though heartbreaking, wasn’t something I feared anymore. The real challenge was facing who I was outside of “us” — just me, stripped of the romantic scaffolding I’d been leaning on.

Survival Mode Engaged

I spent the immediate aftermath doing what many of us instinctively do: running. Running from introspection, from pitying friends offering beers and advice I wasn’t ready to hear. I booked long walks along Kitsilano Beach. Watched waves tally time for me, wiping the slate clean each day. I played hours of Elliott Smith—melancholic self-soothing at its finest. But this wasn’t enough to fill the strange, echoey space a breakup left behind.

That’s when I found myself charting a curious (and sometimes chaotic) survival plan:

  • Start Small but Sure: One thing I learned early while writing fiction: nothing happens until you’re specific. So, I set manageable goals—signing up for yoga, exploring indie film festivals again, even just picking up my morning chai from that café where nobody knew me. (Confession: it wasn’t my family’s café. Cheating on coffee never felt so good.)
  • Navigating Friends Without Crushing Guilt: Lee and I had mutuals. Inevitably, reminders of him would bob in and out of casual mentions. A cheat code? I expanded my circles. Indie gigs courtesy of the Granville scene gave me low-pressure, like-minded company—strangers who didn’t feel like part of the “what happened to Willow and Lee” review board.
  • Lean Into New Energy: Ever tried surfing while reeling from a breakup? Word of advice: do. After dusting off old mentions of Tofino, I spent a weekend wading into West Coast waves—failing spectacularly but laughing the entire time. Surf instructors double as unpaid therapists, it turns out.

Heartbreak Has Layers

It’d be easy to tie this up with “and now I know who I am” fanfare, complete with tips for finding your perfect rebound (spoiler: none of those exist). But that wasn’t my story. The biggest takeaway wasn’t an ultimate survival hack or an Oprah-worthy revelation. It was this quiet and grounding truth: heartbreak isn’t about what you’ve lost; it’s about everything you’ve been avoiding finding within yourself.

For me, that meant noticing the small wins—like finally writing those short stories about migratory homes, people learning where they’re truly from, and being unafraid of turning inwards. Or standing in the middle of Vancouver’s Farmer’s Market without “we” whispering in my ear and feeling good about spending endless haggling time over organic honey.

What I didn’t expect? Gratitude. Gratitude for the lessons Lee gifted me, whether through conflict or kindness. Gratitude for realizing what kind of love remains when the dust settles: the love you give yourself—but also a patient curiosity for what love can grow next.

Love After the Latte Error

And here’s the best part, one I’ll leave you with in case you’re standing where I stood. Take the latte disaster: foamed soy gone wrong, spiraling into customer dissatisfaction. I survived, didn’t I? And oddly enough, that same embarrassment-tinged epiphany is what mended my heart.

Every “challenge” has some chaos baked into it. They test our patience, but if you know your toolkit—humor, fresh starts, a rebound surf lesson if needed—they become less scary. Whether it looks like café kerfuffles or facing love’s dissolving echoes, there’s beauty in pressing onward with your steaming cup in hand. Foam or no foam.