Working in a coffee shop is basically like being dropped into a small, overly caffeinated theater production where everyone thinks they’re the main character. And honestly? They kind of are. At least in the little sketches I make on the backs of order slips when my manager isn’t watching.
I’m not proud of the fact that half my “art studio” consists of receipt paper, cold brew stains, and a pencil that someone left behind two weeks ago. But I am proud that I actually draw every day now. Even if I look extremely suspicious doing it. Seriously—try making eye contact with someone right after secretly sketching them. It’s like being caught stealing someone's soul with a Number 2 pencil.
For context, I’m a barista in my twenties with a face that says “I don’t know what I’m doing but I’m trying my best.” I’m sarcastic by default and shy underneath it, like a turtle with opinions. The type of person who says something funny and then immediately worries about it for three days.
Sketching customers started as a way to stay awake during slow shifts. Now it’s basically my coping mechanism for existing in public. Whenever someone interesting walks in—the tired mom with mismatched shoes, the guy who orders a triple-shot something and looks like an exhausted crow, the elderly couple that still holds hands—I grab a receipt and start drawing like my life depends on it.
Some sketches come out decent. Some come out like potato-shaped goblins. You truly never know which one you’re gonna get. But the thing I didn’t expect was how drawing people would make me feel more connected to them. Which is saying a lot because I am deeply committed to socially distancing my personality.
Here’s a weird truth: when you sketch someone, you notice things you would never otherwise notice. The way their jaw tightens when they’re thinking. The way they push their glasses up every 14 seconds. The way they smile at their phone like it’s telling them a secret. These tiny details make people seem softer. More human. Even the grumpy ones who slam their cups down like they’re challenging gravity.
Also—and I cannot stress this enough—people getting coffee are vulnerable in the most interesting ways. They’re tired. Or hopeful. Or stressed. Or wearing questionable outfits because “it’s laundry day.” Coffee shops are like confessionals without the confession part. Just vibes.
The first time I ever showed someone a sketch, it was an accident. I dropped a receipt and some guy picked it up before I could snatch it. He looked at it for a long moment, and I was ready to evaporate into steam like a dramatic anime character. But he just smiled and said, “You made me look cooler than I am.”
That sentence almost rewired my entire nervous system. It was the first time art didn’t feel like something secret I had to hide. It felt shared. Even welcomed.
After that, I started bringing a real sketchbook to work. Not always. But often enough that the regulars assumed I was “the artsy barista.” I didn’t correct them. I liked the title.
One regular, a woman in her sixties who always wears denim jackets covered in pins, asked if I had ever taken classes. I told her no, mostly because the idea of walking into an art class and being perceived makes me want to faint softly onto a pillow. She told me she started painting at 70 and that the only trick was to start badly and keep going. I wrote that down because it felt like something I would need someday.
A few days later, she brought me a set of small watercolor travel pans. I stared at them for a full minute trying not to cry at work, which is harder than it sounds when your emotional threshold is the strength of a soggy napkin.
So now, between shots of espresso and passive-aggressive interactions with customers who insist their latte was NOT “this temperature last week,” I practice painting tiny faces. Tiny cups. Tiny moments. Nothing fancy. Nothing perfect. Just small things I notice.
One thing I’ve learned is that people reveal themselves when they don’t realize anyone is paying attention. A man leaning on the counter, exhausted but relieved because someone texted him “got home safe.” A student chewing nervously on a pen cap while waiting for a message about exam results. A teenager pretending to read but really scrolling through pictures of a dog in sunglasses. Life is hilarious and sweet when you draw it.
But the biggest surprise? Drawing customers made me less afraid of them. Not in a creepy “I studied your face” way, but in a “I see you, human to human” way. I spend so much time hiding behind sarcasm that I forget I actually like people. Not all people. But enough.
The truth is, drawing while pretending not to be awkward is kind of my whole personality. It’s like social camouflage. If I look focused on my sketchbook, nobody expects me to make small talk. And that’s beautiful. A gift. A blessing. An introvert’s dream.
Still, every once in a while, someone asks to see what I’m working on. When that happens, I do the world’s fastest mental sprint: “Do I show them? Will they hate it? Will I combust into a puff of smoke??” But usually, the reaction is kinder than I expect. People like being seen. Not judged—seen.
Sometimes, when I’m closing the shop alone, the place feels softer. The chairs are upside down on tables, the lights are half-dimmed, and the espresso machine makes those sleepy sighing noises like it’s ready to call it a day. I sit by the front window and sketch whatever’s outside—the parked cars, the streetlights, the silhouettes of people heading home. Those drawings feel different. Quieter. More like me.
And maybe that’s why I keep doing this. Drawing helps me understand myself in a way talking never has. My thoughts are too clumsy for words most days, but on paper, they make a little more sense.
There was a night recently when I was scrolling through art stories online, half-asleep and half-sad for no real reason. I found a long piece written by someone older, someone gentle, someone who rediscovered art after losing a lot. It hit me harder than I expected. Made me feel like being shy and unpolished and a little strange was still allowed. Here’s the link, if you want it—just a quiet story someone shared online.
Anyway—back to the coffee shop. Yesterday, a guy came in wearing sunglasses indoors, which should be illegal unless you’re a celebrity or a vampire. He ordered a small cappuccino and then sat by the window doing absolutely nothing. Just sitting. Staring. Existing in silence like it was his full-time job. Naturally, I drew him.
When he got up to leave, he noticed me sketching and paused. I panicked. He panicked. We panicked together like synchronized swimmers of awkwardness. Then he said, “I… hope I wasn’t too boring to draw.”
I told him, “No one is boring to draw.” He smiled. A real smile. The kind that cracks through the armor people wear.
Moments like that make the whole weird hobby worth it.
Sometimes I wonder if I’ll still be drawing strangers when I’m sixty. If I’ll still be hiding behind a sketchbook, still pretending not to be awkward, still dissecting human moments with a pencil. I hope so. Not the awkward part—just the noticing part.
The best thing about art is that it asks nothing of you except that you look. Really look. And looking at people makes me feel a little braver. A little more in the world. A little less like I’m floating above my own life.
So yeah. I draw people. Badly sometimes. Better other times. But always honestly.
Maybe that’s the point. Not perfection—presence. Not skill—attention. Not confidence—curiosity.
And if people look at me weird while I’m sketching? Fine. I look at me weird too most days.
But I’m still here, pencil in hand, pretending not to be awkward and sketching strangers while the espresso machine hisses at me approvingly.
And honestly? It’s the happiest I’ve been in a long time.