For years, I have thrived—no, survived—on a strict diet of Pepsi Max and lurid-coloured energy drinks. The world, however, seems to have other ideas about my caffeine consumption.

“Have you considered drinking coffee instead?” people suggest, as if this is some easy, natural progression. As if coffee isn’t a bitter, burnt-tasting assault on the senses that requires an entire cultural initiation process.

Still, I see the appeal. Coffee has an air of sophistication. People respect a coffee drinker. If you sip a black Americano in a meeting, people assume you have your life together. If you crack open a can of Monster at 9 AM, people assume you’re either a sleep-deprived student (not far from the truth) or a mechanic on his eighth hour of a 24-hour shift.

And so, I embark on The Great Coffee Transition, leaving behind the neon-coloured chaos of my beloved energy drinks in search of a more socially acceptable source of caffeine.

1. Why Coffee Feels Like an Advanced-Level Beverage

Coffee isn’t just a drink. It’s an entire lifestyle with its own rules, rituals, and frankly unnecessary levels of complexity.

Tea is simple. You put a bag in water. You remove it. You drink it. No one judges you. I like tea, but I really only like drinking it a couple of times a week.

Coffee, on the other hand, has too many variables. There are bean origins, grind sizes, brewing methods, water temperatures, milk frothing techniques, and something called “cupping,” which sounds suspiciously medical.

There is also a deeply ingrained snobbery surrounding coffee. I have been criticised by my boss for drinking an energy drink, while they sip on a double espresso with an extra shot. Apparently, caffeine is only socially acceptable if it’s delivered in a tiny ceramic cup by a barista named Luca.

2. The Sensory Nightmare of First Contact

The first sip of coffee is a betrayal of all expectations.

I had assumed, foolishly, that coffee would have at least a slight natural sweetness. It does not. It tastes like burnt disappointment.

My first attempt at drinking coffee involved taking a sip, making a face like I’d just licked an ashtray, and immediately questioning my life choices.

Sensory issues don’t help. Coffee is both bitter and somehow acidic, and unless prepared correctly, the temperature hovers between “lukewarm disappointment” and “molten lava.” It’s a drink that actively fights you.

At this point, I consider sprinting back to Pepsi Max like a coward, but I am determined to persevere.

3. The Latte Gateway: Training Wheels for the Coffee-Illiterate

I quickly realise that jumping straight into “real” coffee is a rookie mistake.

Lattes, it turns out, are essentially hot, coffee-flavoured milkshakes—and this is something I can work with.

However, there are challenges.

• Order a latte as-is, and it still tastes like regret.
• Add sugar? Now it tastes like sweetened regret.
• Add syrup? Suddenly, I’m drinking a dessert.
• Try oat milk? Unexpectedly pleasant, but now I’m questioning my identity.

With enough syrup, the coffee taste is mostly drowned out, which feels like cheating, but at this point, I will take the win.

4. Overcoming the Barista Anxiety

Ordering coffee is far more stressful than it has any right to be.

For neurotypical people, this process is mildly annoying at best—a minor inconvenience in their otherwise structured, well-adjusted lives.

For me? It’s a high-stakes, multi-step social and sensory challenge that should frankly come with a risk assessment.

Let’s break down the barriers to success:

1. The Decision Paralysis – The menu is a minefield of variables. What size do I want? Do I need an extra shot? Do I want it extra hot? Wait, is coffee not hot enough already? What if I answer incorrectly and get the wrong drink and ruin my entire day?
2. The Performance Anxiety – Baristas fire rapid, semi-intelligible coffee jargon at me like an over-caffeinated auctioneer. They say the order back to me in a tone that suggests I should be verifying their accuracy, as if I understand a single word of what they just said.

“That’s a double-shot oat milk vanilla latte, no foam, with caramel drizzle—extra hot?”

I freeze. That does not sound like what I ordered. But what do I say? If I question them, I risk holding up the line and creating a scene. If I nod and accept my fate, I will end up drinking something I didn’t actually want but now feel obligated to consume.

3. The Auditory Processing Nightmare – The background noise in coffee shops is specifically designed to make life harder for neurodivergent people. The whirr of machines, the clatter of cups, the indecipherable sounds of other customers ordering—it all blends into one impenetrable wall of sound.

And the barista? The barista speaks in low, casual tones that somehow vanish into the ether before they reach my ears.

“Do you want that with an extra shot?”

I hear “Do you want that… mmmf shhhfrrh?”

What do I do? Panic-nod. Always panic-nod.

4. The Social Etiquette Minefield – Am I meant to make small talk while they make the drink? Do I stand silently like I’ve been sent to the principal’s office? If they ask how my day is going, do they actually want to know or is this a test?

By the time I receive my coffee, I am emotionally drained. I need a coffee to recover from ordering coffee.

Neurotypical people will never understand the pure, unfiltered relief of successfully completing a coffee order without needing to lie down in a dark room afterward.

5. The Quest for the Perfect Customisation

Like an amateur alchemist, I begin experimenting.

• Sugar or syrup? One tastes cheap, the other makes me question why I’m paying £4.50 for a drink.
• Milk options? Oat milk is good. Almond milk is suspiciously watery. Whole milk makes me feel like I should apologise to a cow.
• Extra shots? I don’t want too much caffeine. I say this, knowing I regularly drank a 500ml can of Rockstar at 8 PM with no regrets.

Eventually, I stumble upon a tolerable mix. It’s not love, but it’s progress.

6. The Moment of Realisation: You’re a Coffee Person Now

One day, it happens.

I finish a cup of coffee without making a face. I even… enjoy it?

I realise I have started saying things like, “Instant coffee? Oh no, I couldn’t.”

I now have opinions about coffee brands. I refer to my daily drink as “a flat white” rather than “coffee.”

I have become the very thing I feared.

Coffee Acceptance and the Road Ahead

Have I completely abandoned Pepsi Max and energy drinks? No. Absolutely not.

Do I still occasionally think about the simpler times when my caffeine didn’t require a PhD in beverage science? Yes.

But I have adapted. I have learned to navigate the world of coffee, and if that isn’t personal growth, I don’t know what is.

And so, I take a sip of my perfectly crafted single-shot, oat milk vanilla latte, nod wisely, and say:

“Yeah. I drink coffee now.”

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AJ Wright

AJ Wright is a quiet yet incisive voice navigating the surreal world of sociology, higher education, and modern life through the unique lens of a neurodivergent mind. A tech-savvy PhD student hailing from South Yorkshire but now stationed in the flatlands of Lincolnshire, AJ writes with an irreverence that strips back the layers of academia, social norms, and the absurdities of daily life to reveal the humour lurking beneath.

As an autistic thinker, AJ’s perspective offers readers a rare blend of precision, curiosity, and wit. From dissecting the unspoken rituals of academia—like the silent war over the office thermostat—to exploring the sociology of “neurotypical small talk” and the bizarre hierarchies of campus coffee queues, AJ turns the ordinary into something both profound and hilarious.

AJ’s unassuming nature belies the sharpness of their commentary, which dives deep into the intersections of neurodiversity, tech culture, and the often-overlooked quirks of human behaviour. Whether questioning why university bureaucracy feels designed by Kafka or crafting surreal parodies of academic peer reviews, AJ writes with a balance of quiet intensity and playful absurdity that keeps readers coming back for more.

For those seeking a blog that is equal parts insightful, irreverent, and refreshingly authentic, AJ Wright provides a unique perspective that celebrates neurodiversity while poking fun at the peculiarities of the world we live in.  Also a contributor at Thinking Sociologically.

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