The Weight of One Cup
Seoul, Republic of Korea
2025, Junior, Creative Writing
At first, it wasn’t that deep. I drank coffee because I had to. School, early classes, late-night study sessions. There was no version of life where caffeine didn’t play a role. Like most people, I just grabbed whatever was handed to me at the counter. Usually a paper cup, sometimes plastic if it had ice. I didn’t think about it. It was just… there. A tool. One of those things that you don’t really notice in the background until someone points it out.
And, truthfully, it was convenient. Disposable coffee cups were everywhere. I’d stop by 7-eleven or a Starbucks, grab my drink, and be out the door in under three minutes. When I was in a rush to cram for a quiz or trying to survive a boring morning, that warm cup in my hand was the closest thing I had for comfort. I didn’t really need it, but it felt necessary, like a part of a routine that I didn’t bother questioning.
But the cups started to pile up. Not metaphorically, but literally. I’d see the trash cans filled with plastic lids. The classroom bins were constantly overflowing. There were more coffee cups than people in the class.
Even our school began to discourage drinking coffee. Posting reminders about Korea’s insane amount of single-use waste. How billions of coffee cups are tossed every year, and almost none of them are recycled. And for the first time, I felt like I was in the middle of a quiet mess I hadn’t noticed.
Still, I didn’t change. Awareness is cheap. Effort costs and does much more. And I wasn’t exactly in the mood to start being environmentally healthy between exams and all the drama in my life.
One day, a friend showed up to school with a black tumbler. It was nothing fancy, but something about it just looked so cool. They showed it to me, popped open the lid with a satisfying click and said, “It stays hot for like, six hours.” With the smell of fresh coffee coming from the new tumbler my mouth began to water.
I blinked. “No way.”
I picked it up. It felt extremely heavy. Seriously. I wondered why I didn’t think of this earlier, helping both the planet and keeping my coffee warm. I didn’t say anything then, but something changed inside me.
Two days later, I got one of my own.
I didn’t expect it to change my life. I thought I’d maybe use it once or twice, forget it in a taxi, and go back to my cup-hoarding ways. But it stuck. I started bringing it everywhere. I even liked cleaning it. It was as if I became a whole other person. Because it wasn’t just about the coffee anymore.
And here’s the weirdest part. I felt proud. I didn’t expect that. I didn’t expect a simple metal reusable object could give me an entirely new sense of identity . But in a way, it became a part of my daily life.
I’d walk into school with my tumbler like it was an accessory. A quiet flex. I wasn’t just drinking coffee, I was going somewhere. Making a change against the harmful disposable culture I’d been a part of for years.
There were times I forgot it. A busy morning, lazy evenings. And on those days, when I had no choice but to drink from a paper cup again, I noticed the difference. The lid felt cheap. My hands felt hot from the coffee. I missed my tumbler like I missed a loved one.
I didn’t stand at an already full recycling bin and shove a cup into it. But I did make a decision: I was done trashing the world. Not because someone made me do it, or because I wanted to be popular. I did it because it just made sense. It’s a small change that one would not think much of, but it makes a big impact. Every single part of the cup contributes to the deterioration of the environment. From the lid to the paper sleeves. Each part leaves a considerable environmental footprint, oftentimes irreversible and incredibly harmful. Not only to the environment but to the organisms that live in it.
So sure enough, the tumbler did work. It felt right. And the more I used it, the more it started to influence the way I thought about things, about coffee, about habits, decisions, the things we do without even thinking. I’d roll my eyes at those “make a difference” posters or the guilt-trippy recycling reminders.
But this wasn’t about guilt. It was about realizing that something small, something as basic as how I drink my coffee, makes a difference. I did not save the world or anything. I still forget my tumbler sometimes. I still have a lot of progress to make. But what changed was that I started paying attention. I started to care. Now, every paper cup feels like a reminder of who I once was and every time I lug my tumbler around, it feels like I’m choosing to do a little better. Vincent Van Gogh once said, “Great things are not done by impulse, but by a series of small things brought together.” And I think that’s what this is. A small thing, repeated over and over. And maybe that’s how change happens.
Little by little, cup by cup. I never knew how something so fundamental would be considerable. But it is. Not only for the world, but for me as well. Because somewhere amidst the caffeine and stainless steel, I understood that small things that you do repeatedly, define the person you are.
Reflection
In all honesty, I don't even drink coffee. When I read the prompt I didn't know how I could connect to nature in any sense. Living in a city like Seoul makes it hard to find a connection. After reading about the sub-theme of resilience, I started to think about the unconscious choices we make on a daily basis, the habits, the wastage, the indirect influence we exert. I noticed how everyday people would be on the go with their coffee cups in hand. I read about coffee cups in Korea and how serious the problem of single-use waste really is, especially in major cities like Seoul where the convenience culture thrives. I wanted to write a story about what I observed everywhere: overfilled trash cans, coffee cups used once and then carelessly discarded, people rushing through their lives without a second thought. The sub-theme really resonated because it reminded me that resilience is not always loud and dramatic. Sometimes it is about making the choice to do one little thing differently, even when it is easier not to.