Sad Woman, Happy Coffee

First, the coffee maker died.
Then the replacement died.
Then the replacement’s replacement died.

Then I found myself halfway inside a dumpster bin at dawn, in pajamas, trying to locate a broken machine while questioning every decision that got me there.

This is why people snap.

When our old coffeepot finally gave up the ghost, I was secretly thrilled. I don’t have a ton of counter space, and I hate clutter. Hate. It. Having a clunky drip pot and a full-size Keurig crammed together in a tiny corner had been driving me nuts.

So finally, I had an excuse to upgrade to the Keurig Duo, the one with both a carafe and a single-cup option. My husband had argued against it for months, with the unfathomably illogical reason: "We didn't need it."

He's strictly a 'pot-o'-joe' man, and I’m more of an 'instant caffeine before anyone talks to me' kind of woman. Sure, we already had machines that technically did the job, but I wanted consolidation. Clean lines, definitely less clutter.

So when his beloved machine died, he reluctantly agreed to the purchase. (Ever the economist, he insisted we carefully pack up my still-working Keurig "just in case".) I was delighted. We broke it in with our Thanksgiving houseguests.

Well.

We bought it in late November.
By February, it was stone-cold dead.

We pulled my old Keurig back out of storage, only to find it, too, had inexplicably joined its deceased brethren.

At that point, I knew two things: I needed a drip pot and I was gonna be stuck drinking my husband's crappy coffee (sorry dear) until Keurig got it together.

So I picked out a sleek little number that seemed solid enough (and vaguely familiar), and as a treat, grabbed a coffee I'd been eyeing on Insta: Happy Coffee.

I'd seen the posts and admired the branding but never tried it, mostly out of loyalty to Sumatra. But finally, I had a good excuse to try something that felt intentional.

The company's whole vibe of ethical sourcing and mental health support aligned with causes I care about, giving me just enough justification to stand there in the coffee aisle debating the purchase like it was an investment strategy.

I built this platform to speak openly about the hard stuff like grief, trauma, and healing. So yeah, it meant something to see a brand publicly aligned with NAMI.

Fighting stigma and normalizing hard conversations is core to what I do here, too. It felt like a little zen moment of alignment.

But my family good-naturedly teased me that I'd picked Happy Coffee because of my well-documented RDJ bias. That may or may not have factored in.

The truth is, sometimes life's a bit much, and little splurges like a new tub of coffee and a clean machine feel like a way to glean just a little sliver of joy and control. Especially when that joy also supports a cause I care about.

Anyway.
I got home, set up the new machine, placed that cute little Happy canister in front of The Balkan Storm's enormous tub o' budget (which I had been sustaining on and was…not doing well), and programmed the next morning's brew.

Thirty minutes later, he came upstairs to bed and casually mentioned, “You know there’s a fresh pot of coffee downstairs?”

Apparently, I brewed a full pot at 9 p.m.
Guuhhhh.

Again: no Sumatra. I was as sharp as a potato.

No biggie, we’ll just heat it up in the morning, I thought.
Slightly gross but economical.

Well.

The next morning, I stumbled downstairs and nuked my overnight cup of Happy, channelling the scrappy, waste-nothing spirit of my depression-era grandparents.

It was…not great. But hey, it’s been in a pot all night, so of course it’s gonna be off, right?

So I made a fresh pot while telling myself there are better ways to save money than drinking seven-hour-old coffee.

It was delicious. Surprisingly smooth and well balanced.

Not really strong enough to replace my 'punch-in-the-face' Sumatra, but that's okay. It earned a permanent spot on my shelf anyway.
Because some things you keep not for what they do, but for what they mean.

But if Happy ever releases a “Classic Chlorogenic ” or “Caffeinated AF” blend, I'll switch my morning blend without question.

I'm not fancy. I just need it hot, strong, and black as burnt motor oil at stupid o'clock.

Want more? Join us here to see the stuff that doesn't make it to the stories. Or therapy.

Back to the timeline:

Keurig finally sent that replacement machine, and it also died, just as fast as the first one.
No worky, no coffee.

At this point, I was already twitchy. I’ve defended Keurig to my husband for years, and this was the fourth machine in about as many years.

I was done. Did the whole ‘dramatic toss into the dumpster’ bit and messaged Keurig again. (still under warranty, for the record).

After much back-and-forth, they stuck to their replacement-only policy (which, c’mon, would you want a third machine if the first two gave you no reason to trust them? I wanted a refund, those things are a little pricey).

Amazon stepped in for the actual refund (when they didn't have to, I might add, so kudos), but not before informing me that it wouldn’t happen unless I returned the machine. 

Which, if you’ve been following, was now buried under several days' worth of trash.   

Did I mention I hadn’t had my required amount of caffeine in a while? Because that feels like an important detail.

So that’s how I ended up: five feet nothing, 100 and nothing, half upside down in a dumpster bin, trying to retrieve a dead machine to exchange for some small measure of restitution.

Later, my husband asked me why I didn’t just tip the bin over onto the lawn and fish out what I needed.

Sir.

Zero Sumatra. I was plagued with the dumb.

I eventually bought a different, much smaller Keurig so I could return to Sumatran K-Cup stability. No, I’m not proud. My need for instant caffeine supersedes my ability to effectively hold a grudge.

And yes, I know it’s just coffee. And it’s just a machine.
But it never is, is it?
It’s really the last straw (or was in my mind, at least).

When everything else in your life feels precarious: plans, people, legal stuff, even your own patience, you lean hard on whatever still works.

And when that fails, it's beyond annoying. It feels like a betrayal. (Dramatic, yes. But not untrue.)

Because the thing that was supposed to get you through all the other things...just joined the list of things you have to get through.

It’s a reminder that you’re one cup away from teetering upside down in a dumpster bin, swearing a blue streak in your pajamas in front of your neighbor's Ring cam.

And that’s what this was really about.
Not caffeine. Not Keurig.
Control.

Because when everything else feels unpredictable, you just want one thing, one small, stupid thing, to go right.
Even if it's just the coffee.

Speaking of coffee, please consider fueling my next pre-dawn writing binge (and my caffeine habit while you're at it).

Oh, and that "sleek little number" I picked out to replace everything?
In my brain fog, I re-bought the same exact machine we had before.

The one I was so glad had died and thought I was upgrading from. Turns out my husband, loyalist to both drip pots and cheap coffee, was right all along.

I’m still not saying that out loud.
But he knows.
And I know he knows.
And that’s already too much power for one man to have over me.

We ended up rearranging our kitchen, by the way. We're back to two coffee makers again, but this time, I'm getting these bougie little pull-out trays for them, and honestly, it's going to look good. Functional, almost intentional.

He still has his coffee, and now I have two brands of mine...although he did just ask me to buy him mushroom coffee (to which I replied, "Why? You tired of being happy?").

So here we are, back where we started, but not really.
It's almost poetic, isn't it?
A sort of divine comedy with slightly better perspective going forward.

And a husband who's never going to let me forget he was right on this one.

Damn it.

👉 If you enjoyed this, check out The Best Thing I Never Got, a story about a rejection that felt final, but turned into a better beginning.

Heather P. is an essayist and longtime ghostwriter publishing unapologetic stories about trauma, reinvention, and the absurdity of real life.

Creator of Unfinished Business, a platform reaching readers in over 20 countries for its dark humor, emotional precision, and refusal of performative healing, whether the story is about grief, growth, or just getting through Tuesday.