— by a 38-year-old PTSD-ridden, anorexia-haunted, coffee-chugging Taiwanese woman with nothing to lose
A package arrives.
Not from a lover, of course—unless we count 7 sachets of “Pure-Liva Coffee” as love letters in foil form.
And honestly?
I do.
Because in this economy, and at this hormonal level of instability, anything that promises to taste like coffee but not expand my waistline is sexier than a six-pack of abs. And this coffee delivers on that promise with its vegan, low-calorie, and metabolism-boosting properties.
I rip the box open with the desperation of a single aunt at a Louis Vuitton sample sale.
Seven neatly lined sachets stare back at me as if saying,
“Hi, beautiful. We’re vegan. We’re low-calorie. We don’t judge your trauma.”
And I’m like—damn. This is the healthiest relationship I’ve had in years.
No additives. No BS. Just raw, bean-to-cup intimacy.
Each sachet weighs 13 grams—the same as my remaining dignity.
I follow the instructions like a good trauma survivor desperate for control:
OH, MY. GOD.
She’s earthy.
She’s deep.
She’s got the attitude of an Indonesian shaman and the aftertaste of a Colombian breakup.
A whisper of bitterness that kisses me like closure.
It’s not sweet.
Because life isn’t.
But it’s clean—like therapy.
And smooth—like the lies I tell myself every morning to get out of bed.
There’s no sugar, but somehow she’s satisfying.
The flavour lingers like unresolved trauma.
Dark, smoky, and elegant.
Like if James Bond were a bean.
I expected her to punch me in the gut like most “diet” coffees do. You know the kind—those passive-aggressive, laxative-laced horror shows that turn your colon into Niagara Falls?
But this baby?
Nada. No runs. No regrets. Just chill, fat-burning grace.
The Garcinia Cambogia is subtle. No sourness, no guilt, no backhanded compliments.
It just lets my metabolism whisper, “Let’s try again today.”
Is it a placebo? Is it dopamine? Or is it this god-tier coffee?
Whatever it is, my eyes are more widely open, my brain is sharper, and for the first time in a week, I haven’t had a dream about moving into the forest to have mushrooms eat me alive. It’s a comfort, a relief, a warm hug in a cold world. This coffee has become a part of my self-care routine, a tool that helps me navigate my mental health struggles.
I feel… lighter.
Not “I-lost-10kg-in-an-hour” light—I’m not an Instagram scam.
But “I-don’t-hate-myself-right-now” light.
Which, let’s be honest, is rarer than a Taiwanese girl saying she loves her thighs.
I’m on my third sachet, honestly?
My digestion is smoother.
My mood? Slightly less bitchy.
My appetite? Manageable—like that, ex, you only text when Mercury’s in retrograde.
And I’m still not bloated.
Which, for a 38-year-old Taiwanese woman with PTSD, ADHD, and an Olympic gold medal in body dysmorphia?
It is a miracle.
If you’re looking for a coffee that won’t gaslight your bowels, shame your sugar addiction, or remind you of that skinny cousin who always orders “just water” at family dinners…
This is it.
“Pure-Liva Coffee” doesn’t scream, “GET SKINNY OR DIE.”
“Pure-Liva Coffee “doesn’t scream, “GET SKINNY OR DIE.” it whispers, “Let’s get better, one cup at a time.” It’s not about getting skinny; it’s about taking control, feeling empowered, and making each day a little better than the last.
It doesn’t cure PTSD.
It doesn’t erase the beauty trauma of growing up in a society that thinks a woman over 45kg is a land whale.
But it makes mornings a little more bearable.
And that, my friend, is it all. This coffee has been a travel companion for me, a small but real part of my struggle and my triumph. It’s not a beverage; it’s a reminder of self-preservation and strength.
So go on and rip open that sachet like your ex’s apology letter.
Mix in scalding hot water as if breaking up years of self-hatred.
Sip your way into a hot, bitter romance with yourself. It’s not just a coffee; it’s a ritual of self-care, a moment of nurturing in a busy day.
Because honey—you deserve at least one thing that’s both strong and doesn’t leave.
☕️❤️
a second pour of my soul into Pure-Liva Coffee
Once upon a slimmer time, I was the Editor-in-Chief of one of the world’s top lifestyle magazines in Canada.
The kind of woman who wore black velvet gowns on Tuesdays and got flown across the country for champagne brunches on Wednesdays.
Back then, I didn’t walk red carpets—I glided.
I knew chefs by first names, not because I was charming, but because I stood—shamelessly—by the kitchen doors of every damn gala.
The grilled cheese trays.
Yes, those—the bite-sized, caviar-dusted, truffle-oiled grilled cheese squares meant to feed 500 hungry elites.
I’d wait like a hyena.
The moment the server pushed open the kitchen doors, I’d pounce.
“Sorry, allergies,” I’d lie—while inhaling 27 pieces in a single breath.
I was invincible. A goddess in heels.
I could finish a whole banquet, pass out from foie gras overdoses, and wake up skinny.
Every morning, like magic—flat tummy, no guilt.
Metabolism? That b*tch was on steroids.
But then came the stroke.
Then came Taiwan.
Then came moving back in with Mom.
And suddenly, I went from someone whose opinion shaped industries—
To someone whose only job was to survive.
I was once a “somebody.”
Now, I’m just someone’s daughter.
Living under a leaky roof, eating simple meals that taste like love and quiet sacrifice.
Mom now cooks for me like she’s trying to nurse a bird back to flight.
Her porridge bubbles softly at 6 a.m.
She steams purple yams and sings to the rice cooker like it’s an old friend.
She thinks I don’t notice—but I do.
I see how she folds hope into every bite.
But my body isn’t 25 anymore.
And my PTSD doesn’t care if a meal is made with love.
It still screams in my head,
“You’ll get fat again. You’ll be shamed again. Remember the set? Remember how the director fat-shamed you in front of the entire crew when you sat down?”
So, last week, I did the unthinkable.
I took the lovingly prepared food and… put it in the fridge.
I saw the hurt flash across Mom’s face.
She didn’t say anything. She just turned away, quiet.
And I stood there.
Ashamed.
Grieving my old self.
Grieving the metabolism I once weaponized.
Grieving how this body—this aging, post-stroke body—betrays me now.
Then came Pure-Liva Coffee.
Not as a miracle.
Not as a magic fix.
But as a gentle, non-judgmental companion.
No flashy promises. No bullshit. Just… honesty.
Like my mom.
Simple. Clean. Comforting.
Every morning, I make a cup.
I sip it slowly—no sugar, no cream.
Just real beans and a little whisper of Garcinia Cambogia to hug my metabolism out of retirement.
And slowly… something shifts.
Not just my weight.
But my relationship with food. With guilt. With myself.
I can finally have breakfast again.
Not a feast, not a fast—just a balanced start.
And when Mom hands me her soup now, I don’t flinch.
Because, this coffee helped me remember: it’s not about restriction. It’s about respect.
For her. For me. For this second chance.
I may not be at galas anymore.
I may never eat a tower of grilled cheese in a Dior gown again.
But I get to eat in peace.
With my mother.
Under the same roof.
In a kitchen that smells like healing.
And for now?
That’s more than enough.
☕️🖤
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