The first time I worked at Common Grounds, it was trivia night. It was also my first week at EMU. My trainer handed me the small blue recipe binder, looked me in the eye and said, “Use this, good luck, and ask if you have questions.”

I guarantee that the drinks I made that night were sad resemblances of what they should have been. Seven semesters later, I can recall most of my coffee shop flops—the time I made a nutty professor without Reese’s, the time I flooded the counter and floor with a fresh brew, the time I accidentally made an almond milk latte with 2% (still, to this day, hoping that customer wasn’t lactose intolerant), the time I left the dishwasher running all night, the many, many times I left a bagel sitting in the toaster, the time I tried to walk on a freshly mopped floor while on crutches—and the list could go on.

Despite these coffee shop flops and moments lacking grace, the closest thing to rebuke that I’ve received behind that coffee shop counter has been, “my bagel—do you mind getting it for me?” or a gentle, “I think you meant to give me $17 in change, not $3.”

EMU and I—we’ve had our fair share of reciprocated flops and failures. Mediocre macchiatos, lackluster lattes, and cappuccinos with absolutely no foam.

Yet within and between, we’ve had brilliant moments of reciprocated growth— growth through unexpected connections within decisions to pursue curiosity rather than convention and through deep and unbounded questioning. Cayenne-infused hot chocolate, a Bossa Nova tune to accompany a lonely closing shift, or perhaps an impressively symmetrical whipped cream spiral to top a milkshake.

Walking outside of that coffee shop and outside of the comfort of EMU’s green lawns and sparkling halls, I feel a bit like that barista seven semesters ago. Perhaps my biology degree is a bit like that little blue binder, a “Use this, good luck, and ask if you have questions.”