Bittersweet Roast

By Patricia MacDowell

A story about dreaming big, giving everything I had, and quietly breaking when it all fell apart. 

I didn’t just wake up one day and decide to open a café. The choice came after years of strain—working three jobs, watching the pandemic wipe out my Airbnb income, and ultimately being forced to sell my longtime home, the one I thought I’d grow old in. The constant hum of external pressures and an internal exhaustion I couldn't name pushed me towards something new.

I downsized to a condo in Lachine by the water, hoping for peace. But instead found paper-thin walls, four separate floods, and a growing sense of instability—a relentless buzz I couldn't escape. It was during that time—while still working full-time—that I began developing a plan for something entirely new. A desperate, persistent ache whispered:

maybe there’s more than this.

This wasn’t impulsive. It was deliberate, and it took months of preparation. I spent nearly every free moment working with a restaurant industry mentor—meeting over Teams several times a week to build a detailed business plan. I researched what it would take to open a café. I visited locations. I made offers. Some fell through. But the vision was real.

Eventually, I sold the condo myself. I was exhausted, but I knew the sale was essential for what I wanted to build: not just a business, but a place that held meaning. I had already begun laying the groundwork for the business and knew what I wanted to build: a café rooted in care, community, and story. A sanctuary, not just for others, but for the part of me that had always felt out of sync.

I poured everything I had into it—my savings, my energy, my hope. Over $100,000 of my own money, plus financing that brought the total investment to more than $235,000. Every tile, every fixture, every layer of paint reflected a choice I had to make. I wasn’t just opening a business. I was trying to create a future I could breathe in.

Café 2 Mains wasn’t just a name. It meant “two hands”—a reflection of presence, collaboration, and the kind of grounded connection I had long craved in the world. I sourced ethically roasted beans from women-run cooperatives. I paid attention to the smallest things: compostable packaging, soft lighting, natural wood finishes, and furniture that made people feel safe and welcome. I worked with a designer to help shape a space that felt warm and intentional.

It wasn’t just about aesthetics. It was about nervous system regulation. About sensory ease. About belonging. I wanted the space to feel good for the people who came in—but also for myself. I was trying to build something I could finally feel part of, a space where the constant hum of the world could quiet just enough for me to exist.

And at the helm of this project, I managed everything. The permits. The demolition. The construction. The branding. The suppliers. The website. The marketing. The unpredictable waves that hit just as I was trying to get steady—street closures, equipment failures, city floods—each one amplifying the internal chaos I couldn't yet name.

All of it, while living in a small, run-down apartment with cigarette smoke drifting in from the neighbor’s unit and paper-thin walls I couldn’t escape. The café became where I spent my days. That space felt like my first real home.

It was a serious, sustained effort. A kind of grit that had nothing to do with hustle culture and everything to do with survival. I gave it everything I had—every ounce of energy I could summon—while quietly navigating sensory overwhelm, exhaustion, and autistic burnout I didn’t yet have a name for. Each new challenge chipped away at me, but the dream of this sanctuary propelled me forward.

I was also building a community. My baristas felt like family while we were there together. I treated them with care and fairness and made sure they felt seen and supported. Even if we didn’t stay in touch afterward, I hoped they carried some piece of that time with them. In their presence, I found glimmers of the connection I so desperately sought.

But winter came early. The city tore up the road in front of the café. Floodwaters crept up to the door. Rent was due. Revenue dropped. And no matter how hard I worked, I couldn’t fight the weight pressing in. I was out of time.

I asked my landlady for a short extension—just a few months. I had already given a large caution (the upfront amount that’s usually returned at the end of a lease) and asked her to temporarily apply it toward rent. But there was no flexibility. I had maxed out every line of credit. I was maxed out emotionally, too. The weight of it all—the constant masking, the relentless demands on my senses, the sheer exhaustion—had finally brought me to my knees.

I still cry when I look at photos. Not just from grief—but from love. I can see the warmth taking shape—the progress I was making. I remember the steady hands it took. The resilience. The hope. If I’d had just a bit more time, I truly believe I would’ve made it through the winter lull and into the spring rush.

But I didn’t get that time. Eleven months after opening, I had to declare personal bankruptcy.

Because of that, I wasn’t allowed to sell anything. Not even the $35,000 Modbar espresso machine I had chosen with care. Everything stayed behind—the equipment, the custom banquettes, the furniture. It didn’t matter that I had paid for most of it myself. It was considered secured collateral. I had no control over what happened next.

The café was eventually turned into a pottery studio. The layout remained. So did the banquettes. The lighting. Even the color palette I had chosen. My name was gone. But the walls remembered.

It wasn’t just the financial loss. It was the helplessness. The heartbreak. The shattering of the one place I had built for myself, by myself, to finally belong. This devastating loss, this profound grief, became the catalyst. It forced me to look inwards, to understand why this break felt so catastrophic. And through that painful unraveling, I finally found the answers that explained decades of my life: the late diagnosis of AuDHD.

It wasn’t just a café. It was my attempt at freedom. My act of courage. My place to belong.

And I still don’t know what hurts more: that it failed… or that I never had a fair chance, not even with myself.

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