September 26, 2023

one year on – reflecting on a failed business

It’s no secret that times are tough on small businesses in Scotland. The cost of living crisis, a society learning to come back from a global pandemic which left us isolated and frustrated, and the increased demand for online business have greatly impacted the family-run startups across the length and breadth of the country. So what is it like to work so hard on a business and see it fail despite your best efforts?

In August 2022, my family’s small coffee shop closed its doors for the last time, ending two years of hard work. I poured my heart and soul into it and watched my parents – coffee shop newbies – slowly become fascinated with the creative and social aspects of running a wee hub where people could meet and socialise, or simply grab a quick pick me up to get them through another day. After two lockdowns and endless months of worry, many people within our community who had been alone were able to venture out once again and see friendly faces; or at least, the upper half of them.

This is the thing I miss the most about my work as a coffee shop manager. A social hub, a safe space for those forgotten, or seeking shelter from the rain, or something unspoken. All were welcome. I had always wanted the space to be – as my parents jokingly quoted – ‘Cheers, but a coffee shop.’

When small businesses close, this is what those within the community lose. They lose the connection with baristas who serve them daily, and become a touchpoint of normalcy in a post-pandemic world of re-establishing routines, of learning how to be a functioning person once again. Our team was small, and in two years we employed less than a dozen staff. Certain customers had favourite staff members, and serving them a cup of something cosy was therapy for us as much as for them. Many quiet mornings were spent chatting as if among friends, emptying our worries onto the wooden tabletops between blue ceramic cups steaming comfortingly.

My heart hurts the most for these conversations, that they will never again happen in that time and place, at those tables, as the seasons passed and milestones were struck on either side of the counter.

In the year since, I still see many of the customers in the street, or on the bus. They stop me, and smile, and talk as if there were still a cake display between us, as if I were in an apron, as if this was their morning pitstop on the way to the office.

The memories of what we lost dissipate in those moments, and I realise that the shop was more than the four walls of the building and the endless nights of worry about money and holiday cover and COVID and the rising cost of milk.

The shop was the people, the laughter that was sweeter than the scent of fresh espresso, smoother than velvety steamed milk.

I don’t hurt for what we lost now. I am grateful for the people who made the short years worth every early morning and every scrub of the coffee machine.

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