What’s The Point?

There’s a trend making its way around social media. Users are sharing videos of peaceful, almost forgettable moments—laughing with friends, a leaf caught in the wind, sunlight spilling across the kitchen table — captioned with “Almost forgot that this is the whole point.” The posts are to Matt Berry’s enchanting song Take My Hand. It’s a gentle reminder that purpose is found in simple, meaningful experiences.

Lately, I’ve needed that reminder. As executive director, I often get swept up in the “big picture” of Wildflyer Coffee—budgets, board meetings, staffing challenges, fundraising plans. And in a year when everything feels shakier than ever, stress is high and morale is low, it’s far too easy to lose sight of why I started Wildflyer.

Last Monday was one of those days. I was clicking between screens, frantic to submit a grant proposal, catch up on a backlog of emails and sketch out an outline for an upcoming presentation. By 2 p.m., I was yawning and contemplating how I could hook up a direct line from the cold brew in the shop to my office. Rubbing my forehead, I ignored the mess of papers on my desk crying out for attention, gathered the last of my energy reserves, and made my way to the St. Paul cafe for the spring cohort’s graduation event. 

The shop was packed-not with customers, but with youth surrounded by friends, family, employment counselors, and Wildflyer staff. The air smelled of espresso mixed with black beans, spiced chicken and warm tortillas. Our generous neighbors, Tavoli’s, had donated tacos to the party.

A huge sign saying “Congrats” in orange bubble letters lay on the table, filled with scribbled notes from our customers, wishing this latest graduating group well in their next endeavors. Conversations rose and fell; laughter carried across the room. You could feel the pulsating energy. The room was alive. 

I grabbed some food and slipped into a seat next to Daniel, a winter graduate who had come back to cheer on this cohort. Daniel has become a bit of a fixture at the Minneapolis shop. When he’s done with his shifts at the Seward Cafe, he’ll come hang out at the bar, chatting with the baristas who were once coworkers and are now friends. His sweet and encouraging demeanor makes him a welcome presence. As I sit down, he lifts his head and gives me a small smile. It hit me, jolting me out of my executive director persona and into Carley, the youth worker who saw a resource gap and tried to fill it with coffee. It felt good to fall back into that version of me. 

Derrek and Jupiter, our program managers, start off the evening. Gratitude blooms across my chest when I think about how Jupiter started with us as a part-time Shift Lead and now leads the entire Work and Life Skills Training program, providing employment for 48 youth each year. I love this team. I love the work we do. I need to remember this. 

One by one, the graduates stepped up to the makeshift stage, introduced by a program lead who spoke about their growth, their distinct personalities, and what we’d miss about them. Juliet, a lead from the Minneapolis shop, introduced Jane, who approached the microphone with curly bangs and glasses half-hiding their face, but not their radiant smile. 

Sunlight streamed through the large window behind them as Juliet began detailing the circumstances that led to Jane uprooting their life to move from California to Minneapolis. Stating that in every way, Wildflyer was a new start. She spoke of Jane’s wit, their love of art, and the doodles they’d leave around the cafe. And then Juliet shared what she viewed as Jane’s strongest quality: her bravery.

“It takes incredible courage to put your faith in some Midwestern strangers in a coffee shop.” She said 

The room broke into laughter at that description of the Wildflyer crew.

Juliet went on, her voice confident: 

“Jane is building a career, a network, and a sense of self entirely from scratch, which is no easy feat. But to Jane, a blank canvas isn’t scary. It’s an opportunity to make something incredible. And I know they will.”

I also know they will. My office is next to the one our program leads use for meetings with youth, and it is not soundproof. Over the last two months, I’ve been mid-email when I’ve heard the familiar sounds of the door shutting. The shuffle of Juliet and Jane arranging chairs and sitting down. Then the phone calls. I’d turn up my music to block out the noise, but it never worked. I’d overhear the hours they spent together. Tracking down vital documents lost across state lines. Figuring out medical records. Processing complex family situations. Working on job applications. Jane is creating a new life, a new sense of self, and she’s doing it with bravery, and Juliet, a Midwest stranger, has been there every step of the way.

Juliet finished her introduction, handed Jane their graduation gift and hugged her. We all clapped. 

I felt it deep in my bones:

These small moments. These hugs. These relationships. These seven young people are graduating with housing, jobs, connections, and confidence that someone believes in them. These seven graduates are making something incredible out of blank canvases. 

This can’t get lost in the noise of an overcrowded year and packed schedules. 

This is the whole point.