The Starbucks Line — The Wrong Thing Melted

What a Starbucks line taught me about ADHD and waiting

He walks in willingly. But once inside, there’s a long line — and waiting is not his friend. Nor mine. But I’m the one who wants the coffee, not him.

He starts pacing. Back and forth. It’s how his body shows what his words can’t yet say: this isn’t working for him. His patience is gone.

I try to calm him by saying “Just a little longer.” But his eyes are on the line that hasn’t moved, and he knows I’m not telling him anything that feels true.

Did he walk in planning to melt down? Does he deserve punishment? Some might say yes. And, to be honest, depending on the day, I might have agreed.

But if I pause — if I remember that he’s a person too, with his own limits, his own discomfort, his own lack of control in a situation he didn’t choose — I can listen to the words he isn’t saying.

This is often what ADHD looks like in real life — the friction between waiting and wanting, without a clear way to regulate the in-between. It shows up as pacing, yelling, sometimes throwing — or worse.

Plan for the moment before It falls apart

Not everything can be planned, but some things should be — especially the moments we already know might be hard.

You see, I usually scroll on my phone while I’m in line if my son isn’t with me — mind-numbing as it is, it gives me something to do while I wait for my coffee. But when he’s with me, he has nothing to do while he waits for me.

Now we bring books. Sometimes we play a game on my phone together. Sometimes I order ahead and hope it’s ready before we even get there.

But last time it wasn’t.

So we made a game out of it. The place was nearly empty, so we tried every chair until we found our favorites — dull green, faux-leather chairs by the window. We sat down and stayed a while. The lighting was warm, not harsh. Softer than most places. We both liked it.

And then there were the drinks.

I had my usual hot vanilla latte with almond milk and an extra shot of espresso to carry me through the rest of the day. And he ordered his favorite — a vanilla bean Frappuccino — dairy-free, cold, thick, and sweet (like him). Looking at it, I realized it’s not just a drink. It’s a tool — something to help him wait, knowing, like me, there’s a reward at the end.

And because, this time, he actually enjoyed the waiting — the cozy chairs, the window seats, the warm lighting — we stayed there for a while. His drink rested on the ledge, catching the sun.

Condensation formed — small beads along the plastic cup, gathering, then slipping downward in slow, sweet trails, melting.

Just like the moment.

If you’re interested in more thoughts like this — the small shifts, ideas, and moments that shape how we approach food and family — you can join me in my weekly column, The Edit on Substack.