I have a whole café built in my mind. I know what the light looks like in the afternoon, slanting low through big windows onto worn wood tables. I know the sound it makes, quiet, but not silent. The low hum of conversation, the occasional clink of a spoon against ceramic, something soft playing that nobody can quite name but everyone likes.
I know the smell, too. Cake in the oven. Coffee, obviously. But underneath that, something warmer. Maybe cinnamon. Maybe just the smell of a place that’s been loved for a long time.
And the cups. The cups are mine. I made them. Slightly imperfect, like handmade things are. Each one a bit different from the next. The kind of cup you pick up and turn in your hands before you even take a sip, just noticing the weight of it.
This café doesn’t exist. It’s never existed. But I’ve been carrying it around with me for years.
Where It Started
It started small. I used to bake cakes from home. Nothing fancy, just simple cakes for friends and family. Over time, it became a small business, but I never dreamed of turning it into something massive. It was simply something I loved doing.
Looking back, I think it was never really about the cakes. It was the process. The quiet afternoon spent measuring and mixing. The smell that lingered in the house long after the baking was done. The little bit of anticipation before someone took their first bite. And maybe most of all, the look on their face when they saw the finished cake, fully decorated and made just for them. Those moments felt just as rewarding as the baking itself.
I didn’t have the words for it then, but I think that was my first introduction to nourishment.
Somewhere in there, a little dream took root. What if there was a place for this? Not a big place. Not a chain, not a brand, just a small room somewhere, with good light and good chairs, where people could come in, sit down, and feel like they’d stepped out of their day for a moment.
And then, life did what life does.
Between raising kids, work, and dealing with my own health challenges, there wasn’t a lot of room left for big ideas. Most days were about getting through the day and making sure everyone else had what they needed.
But the dream would still show up from time to time.
Sometimes it was while baking. Sometimes it was sitting in a cozy café, watching people gather around a table. Sometimes it was while travelling, stumbling into a little neighbourhood spot that felt warm and welcoming in a way that’s hard to explain and visiting those beautiful pottery shops with all the beautiful bowls and cups.
I’d catch myself thinking, “I’d love to create something like this one day.” Then life would move on, and so would I. Not because I stopped wanting it, but because there was always something more urgent needing my attention.
I’d think about it sometimes. Usually at strange moments, washing dishes, or driving somewhere with nothing on the radio. A little flicker of someday, maybe, and then it would fade again, the way these things do, until the next quiet moment brought it back.
A few years ago, I started travelling more, especially through Asia, and something changed without me really expecting it. I started noticing the details in shops and cafés I visited.
I’ve always been drawn to handmade things, but it felt different there. In Japan especially, I started noticing the pottery more in shops and cafés, and how even everyday objects felt made with real care. Maybe it’s just how things are made there, but it all felt more intentional.
It wasn’t just in galleries or shops, but at the table. The bowl my meal was served in. The matcha bowl warming my hands in a café. The cup that somehow made a simple tea feel more special. I’d find myself turning pieces over in my hands, noticing the details. A glaze that pooled a little differently around the edges. A bowl that wasn’t perfectly symmetrical. Tiny marks that reminded you a real person had made it. And the funny thing is, it wasn’t really about the pottery. It was about how it made me feel.
I’d sit in these little cafés, sometimes tucked away down an alley with only a few seats, and everything just felt considered. The food, the music, the lighting, the handmade bowls and cups. Nothing felt rushed or mass-produced. It gave me this sense of calm. Like someone had actually thought through every detail, not to impress people, but because they cared about how the place felt. And the pottery wasn’t separate from that. It was part of it. Holding a cup or bowl that someone had made by hand changes the experience a bit. You slow down without really trying. You notice things you’d normally miss.
Every time I left one of those cafés, I’d think, “This is the kind of feeling I want to create one day.” I came home from those trips with that feeling still stuck in my head.
It’s a different dream now than it was back when it was just about cakes. It’s grown a bit. It’s less about one specific thing and more about the feeling I kept coming back to over time. I think about a small space. Not trying to be everything. Just a few tables, a bit mismatched but still working together. A place that feels warm without trying too hard.
And I like the idea that it would have little handmade touches throughout, things I’ve made over time, mixed in naturally rather than styled or perfect. Just small pieces that add to the feeling of it being lived-in and personal, not curated.
A space that feels warm without trying too hard.
A Step Closer, and Still So Far
Recently, I took a pottery class. Not my first, but my first in a long time. Just sitting there with my hands in the clay again, trying to shape something myself instead of only admiring it in someone else’s café.
And it did something funny to me. It made the dream feel closer and further away at the same time, both at once, in a way that’s hard to explain unless you’ve felt it yourself.
Closer, because I’d finally done something. Not just thought about it, not just collected ideas from my travels, but actually sat down and tried.
My hands didn’t really remember what to do at first. The clay mostly didn’t do what I wanted it to do either. But for a couple of hours, the dream wasn’t just something in my head. It was there in front of me, in a piece of clay that didn’t turn out quite the way I planned, but was real nonetheless.
But it also seemed further away, because it was just one class. One small taste of something that takes years to really get good at. I left with a much clearer sense of how much there is to learn, and the gap between “I made something” and “I can make what I actually imagine for this café I have in mind.”
It was humbling. In a good way, but also a bit deflating at the same time. So that’s where I am. A bit closer. Still very far. Both things true at once.
On top of all that, I’m in the middle of my holistic nutrition studies right now, which I really enjoy, but it also takes up a lot of my time and headspace. The kind of time I used to spend daydreaming about this.
It feels like a strange but fitting parallel at times. Learning how to support people through food and the body, while this other idea of a café sits quietly in the background, focused on creating a different kind of nourishment through space, food, and experience. Maybe they’re not actually as separate as they seem. Maybe they’re just different ways of caring for people. But for now, it just means the café stays patient. It waits while I study, while life keeps moving, while I slowly, very slowly, keep learning.
I won’t pretend I have a plan. I don’t have a location, a timeline, a spreadsheet with numbers that make sense. What I have is a feeling, one that’s been quietly present for a long time, that got a little louder after all that travel, and that I’m not quite ready to let go of.
Maybe it stays a dream for a while longer. Maybe life just stays full the way it is now, and this idea keeps existing mostly in my head. In little moments I picture it. Light coming through imaginary windows. Cups I haven’t made yet. Cakes I haven’t baked for anyone outside my own kitchen.
But I wanted to write it down, not because I have it figured out, or because there’s a plan, but because sometimes it helps to say things out loud anyway. Even the dreams that are still far away. Maybe especially those ones.
So here it is. My café. The one that doesn’t exist yet.
Maybe someday.