Riff—Make the Coffee Slowly

On Kindness, Regulation, and Choosing Not to Become What We Oppose

I struggled today with self-regulation. Still struggling as I prepare for bed.

This week’s news makes me angry and sad and slightly unhinged, and I can feel my nervous system wanting to spin into catastrophe.

My wife asked me this morning what we should do with all this fury and grief. And I heard myself say: We must double down on kindness.

We cannot respond to evil with the same friend-enemy dichotomy it wants us to inhabit. We cannot meet force with force and think we’re doing something different. The people who see power and strength as the fundamental reality of the world—they want us to join them in that story. They want us to prove their point by becoming what we oppose.

So it matters more than ever that we embody forbearance. Patience. Charity. Not because these virtues are weak or naïve, but because they’re the only things that actually heal.

And before we can do any of that for others, we have to do it for ourselves.

Today I put on my nervous system playlist—actual lullabies and soothing tones that quite literally caress the agitated parts of my brain. Lots of John Rutter these days. I slowed myself down. I performed the small liturgy of making my café au lait and my wife’s chai.

I felt the coffee grounds between my fingers. I smelled their aroma. I watched the gases emerge when the hot water bubbled through. I heard the music of my spoon as I mixed milk and brew together. These small rituals ground me in something bigger than the evil that demands all my attention.

It’s not just my window of tolerance that needs care right now—it’s my window of perspective. When I’m dysregulated, the current moment becomes the whole of reality. I catastrophize. I confuse these awful things with allthings.

But when I’m grounded—when I’m held by these small physical rituals—I remember a different story. I remember God’s steadfast love. I remember specific moments of provision and beauty in my own life. That memory heals the fog clouding my vision.

The rituals ground me, and hope returns. Still moving, I find myself resting in God’s love.

This is what I know how to do today. Make coffee slowly. Listen to lullabies. Remember that God has been faithful before and will be faithful again.

Choose kindness, especially when everything in me wants to choose fury. It’s not much. But it’s what I have. And maybe it’s enough to walk again.

If you’re struggling too, I’m with you. Make the coffee slowly. Remember the good. Choose the small embodied kindnesses that reconnect you to something larger than the horror.

We walk together.