The one who heals herself with lists and lattes.

I could say that I have a rich inner life, but the truth is, I have far, far too many things on my mind.
So, instead of having a silent burnout on my couch, I do what I do best: I open a notebook, make myself a latte, and start a new list.

It's 8:42 AM, I've already rebuilt my life three times in my head, imagined two moves, three careers, and a breakup that doesn't even exist. My phone is flashing, my inbox too, and then I feel that familiar feeling rising: the infamous “I’m going to lose control of my own life.”.
This is usually the time when I close everything up, grab my coat, and go get a coffee.

Because yes, I don't always go to the shrink, but I very often go to the local barista.
I sit down with my steaming hot latte, put down my bag, take out a pen, and begin:
New page.
New list.
Another attempt to bring some order to the chaos.

I make lists for everything.
Things to do before moving. The ones that stress me out.
Things that I don't control (and that I would still like to control, obviously).
The ones that make me feel good.
Sometimes even things I wouldn't dare tell anyone.

Writing is my way of telling my brain: “Okay, we heard. Now we’re going to tidy up.”
Because if I leave everything running up there, it's like opening thirty-four tabs on an old laptop: at some point, it overheats, it slows down, and it eventually crashes.
So I make a list. I break the panic down into short lines with dashes in front. Strangely, it's a little less scary that way.

And then there's the latte.

The latte is my socially acceptable comfort object.
The excuse to sit in a corner of a café, observe people, breathe a little. And remind myself that the world isn't going to collapse in the next ten minutes, even if my brain is convinced it is.
When I place my hands on the hot cup, I feel like I'm signing a mini-contract with myself: “Let’s calm down. We’ll do what we can today. No more, no less.”

Of course, sometimes my lists backfire on me.
There are days when the to-do list feels like a final judgment:
“You should have already done this, this, this, and this.”
Entire columns of things I haven't checked, staring at me like: “"So, what do you actually do with your life?"”

It took me a while to understand that my list was not a tribunal.
That I could also make it a gentle place.
A place where I don't just write “Pay the bill, fill out a form, reply to something”.

But also :
“Call someone who makes me feel good.”
“Go for a 10-minute walk.”
“Doing nothing for half an hour… and owning it.”

I started making wish lists, not just lists of obligations.
Of the “Things that reassure me when everything goes haywire.”.
Of the “small victories of the day”, even if it's just “I took a real shower” And “I didn’t eat the whole packet of savory biscuits.”.
And some days, the only thing I tick is “survive today”. And, honestly, that's already a lot.

It's not a miracle method.
It's no substitute for therapy, rest, or real conversations with real people.
But between an overloaded brain and a cup of coffee, there's this tiny space where I can sit, write, breathe. And admit that I'm doing the best I can with what I have.

So yes, I'm the one who heals herself with lists and lattes.
The one who cuts her fears into small black lines on white paper.
The one who negotiates with her day in the back of a cafe, pen in hand, milk foam at the edge of her lips.

And maybe you, too, are like that in some way.
That you're standing there with notebooks, notes on your phone, scribbled receipts, and a little too much coffee.

If that's the case, then there are at least two of us.
Two of them trying to survive modern life with lists and lattes. And the quiet hope that tomorrow, perhaps, there will be a little less to write about.