the black coffee rule
Have I ever asked you, “How are you?” Or “How was your day?”. I don’t think I do that often. So let me ask you today.
How are you—really?
How was your day?
Are you happy with your life?
Most people will say they’re trying to be happy. And I understand that, I can’t deny—because I’ve been there too. We chase happiness like it’s a finish line, like life is a competition where the prize is joy. Sometimes we compete with others. Sometimes, quietly, we compete with ourselves.
We tell ourselves we’re not chasing happiness—we’re chasing success, health, wealth, freedom. But if we’re honest, all roads still lead to the same destination: the hope of feeling okay. Of feeling fulfilled. Of feeling light—It’s happiness.
The problem is, happiness was never meant to be permanent. It’s not linear. Life doesn’t move in straight lines—sometimes it bends, breaks, surprises, and hurts. And maybe that’s the point. Maybe happiness only feels real because pain exists alongside it.
That’s where the black coffee rule comes in.
I first encountered this idea through a short video online. A CEO was asked how she built her life and career, and her answer wasn’t about strategy, investments, networking—it was about how she drinks her coffee.
Black. No milk. No sugar.
Not because coffee should be bitter—but because bitterness doesn’t need to be disguised.
The rule isn’t about coffee. It’s about life.
So many of us spend years adding “sugar” to things that are fundamentally wrong for us. We soften bad relationships by calling them complicated. We stay in the wrong jobs by convincing ourselves they’ll eventually improve. We tolerate people who drain us because we don’t want to seem ungrateful or dramatic.
Sugar makes things easier to swallow.
But easier doesn’t mean healthier.
Drinkable doesn’t mean good.
At some point, I realized I wasn’t being patient—I was slowly betraying myself. I kept sweetening situations that were quietly harming me, telling myself endurance was a virtue. But bitterness, when tasted honestly, is information. It tells you something is off.
And you’re allowed to listen.
You’re allowed to taste the truth of what you’re tolerating.
You’re allowed to put the cup down.
You’re allowed to walk away.
Because the right things—the right people, the right places, the right choices—don’t need sugar.
They may not always be sweet, but they won’t poison you either.