I keep staring at this steaming, yellow-orange cup of liquid on my kitchen counter like it’s going to whisper the secrets of the universe to me. The turmeric has stained my hands that stubborn golden hue that never quite washes out, no matter how much I scrub. It’s 6:42 AM on a Tuesday, and I’m holding onto this warm ceramic cup like it’s a life raft.
You know how it goes. First, you’re just scrolling through Instagram, mindlessly double-tapping your friend’s holiday photos, and then—bam!—you’re suddenly bombarded with wellness influencers promising that this ancient concoction will “change your life” and “revolutionize your health journey.” That’s how I ended up here, with almond milk, turmeric, ginger, cinnamon, black pepper, and a touch of honey swirling together in what is supposed to be my ticket to reduced inflammation and endless vitality.
I take a sip and grimace slightly. It’s not bad, exactly. Sort of warming and spicy, with that earthy turmeric flavor that I’ve somehow convinced myself I enjoy. But as I swallow, I can’t help wondering: will this actually fix anything that matters?
Let me back up a bit. Three months ago, I got laid off from my job in publishing. It wasn’t exactly unexpected—the whole industry has been hemorrhaging positions faster than my houseplants lose leaves in winter—but it still hit like a ton of bricks. Then my landlord announced he’s selling the flat I’ve lived in for four years, giving me two months to find somewhere new in a rental market that’s basically The Hunger Games with estate agents. Oh, and my long-term relationship imploded spectacularly right before Christmas. Happy holidays to me, right?
So naturally, instead of addressing any of these actual, concrete problems, I’ve been diving headfirst into wellness culture. Because apparently, if I can just get my inflammation down and balance my gut microbiome, everything else will sort itself out. At least that’s what the woman with the perfect kitchen and seemingly unlimited budget for adaptogenic mushrooms keeps telling me from my phone screen.
I’ve spent £47 on organic turmeric and a fancy milk frother I didn’t need. The irony of spending money I don’t have on expensive wellness products while unemployed isn’t lost on me, I promise.
My friend Maya called me out on it last week over coffee. “You know that golden milk isn’t going to pay your rent, right?” she said, eyebrow raised in that way only best friends can get away with. I nearly choked on my (regular, significantly cheaper) latte.
“It’s for my inflammation,” I muttered defensively.
“What inflammation?” she challenged.
“You know… general… body… inflammation,” I stammered, suddenly aware of how ridiculous I sounded. “It’s preventative.”
Maya just stared at me, waiting for the penny to drop.
And drop it did. I’ve been medicating my anxiety about structural life problems with expensive yellow drinks. I’m basically the poster child for how wellness culture has convinced us that the answer to systemic issues is individual consumption. Lost your job due to industry-wide cutbacks? Drink this golden milk! Can’t afford housing because of an out-of-control property market? Have you tried adding ashwagandha to that?
The thing is, I’m not even against wellness practices. I genuinely do feel better when I move my body regularly and eat vegetables and all that boring, obvious health stuff. But somewhere along the line, I think a lot of us (definitely me) have gotten confused about what these practices can and cannot do for us.
They can: potentially help with certain physical symptoms, provide comforting rituals, give us a sense of control when everything feels chaotic.
They cannot: solve unemployment, fix the housing crisis, heal a broken heart, or dismantle capitalist structures that make our lives precarious in the first place.
And yet here I am at dawn, whisking turmeric into warm milk like I’m conducting some sort of employment summoning ritual. To be fair, the process of making it is soothing—measuring the spices, watching the milk change color, the repetitive stirring motion. There’s comfort in the routine of it. The problem isn’t the golden milk itself; it’s what I’m expecting it to do for me.
Yesterday, I had a job interview that went terribly. I stumbled over simple questions, couldn’t articulate my experience clearly, and left feeling like an absolute fraud. What did I do afterward? Came home and made golden milk, of course. As if somehow the anti-inflammatory properties of turmeric would make the interviewer forget my nervous rambling and offer me the job anyway.
I didn’t make a single job application today. But I did spend forty-five minutes watching YouTube videos about how to make the “perfect” golden milk. Priorities, clearly.
It reminds me of something my grandmother used to say: “You can’t pour from an empty cup.” She meant it as a reminder to take care of yourself so you can take care of others, but I think I’ve been interpreting it all wrong. I’ve been focusing so much on the cup—making sure it’s filled with the most nutritious, Instagram-worthy contents—that I’ve forgotten to actually use what’s in it to do anything productive.
The golden milk isn’t the problem. It’s probably not doing much, but it’s not hurting anything either (except maybe my grocery budget). The problem is the magical thinking I’ve attached to it—the belief that if I just consume the right things, I can somehow consume my way out of problems that require actual action.
My flatmate Tom wanders into the kitchen, hair sticking up at odd angles, eyes still puffy with sleep.
“Making that yellow stuff again?” he asks, reaching past me for the kettle.
“Golden milk,” I correct him. “It’s anti-inflammatory.”
He squints at me. “Cool. Has it helped you write those job applications yet?”
I glare at him, but he’s right and we both know it. “I’m doing that today,” I say with more conviction than I feel.
“Good,” he nods, dunking a tea bag into his mug. “Because Spencer called while you were out yesterday. Said the rent’s going up another hundred quid when we renew next month.”
And just like that, my golden milk loses a bit more of its shine. No amount of turmeric in the world can fix the housing crisis or the job market. I can’t sip my way out of late-stage capitalism.
“I’ll start on applications after breakfast,” I say, and I mean it this time.
Tom gives me a sympathetic look. “The yellow stuff tastes good though?”
“Golden milk,” I correct him again, “and yeah, it’s growing on me.”
“Well, there’s that at least,” he shrugs, wandering back toward his room with his tea. “Small victories and all that.”
Small victories. Maybe that’s the key. The golden milk doesn’t need to solve all my problems to be worthwhile. Maybe it can just be… a nice drink that I enjoy. Not a miracle cure, not a substitute for action, just… a warm beverage that makes mornings a bit more pleasant while I face my actual problems.
I pull out my laptop and open the job search website I’ve been avoiding. Then I take another sip of my golden milk. It tastes better when it’s not carrying the weight of all my expectations.
Two weeks and countless job applications later, I’m still making golden milk most mornings. But something’s shifted. I’m not expecting it to change my life anymore; I’m just enjoying the ritual of it. The way the spices smell as they warm in the pan. The subtle sweetness of the honey against the earthiness of the turmeric. The few minutes of quiet before the day properly begins.
I got a job offer yesterday. It’s not perfect—a three-month contract, less money than I was making before—but it’s something. A start. Maya suggested celebrating with prosecco, but I woke up this morning and made golden milk instead. Not because I think it had anything to do with getting the job, but because I wanted it. Simple as that.
As for the flat situation, Tom and I decided to renew despite the rent increase. We’ll both need to budget more carefully, and I’ve started looking at side gigs to supplement the new job. These aren’t perfect solutions, but they’re actual actions rather than wellness substitutes.
My grandmother was right about not pouring from an empty cup, but I think she missed something important: you also can’t just keep filling your cup without ever pouring from it. At some point, you have to use what you’ve got—imperfect as it may be—to do what needs doing.
So yes, I’m still drinking golden milk while my problems remain largely unsolved. But I’m no longer expecting the golden milk to solve them. That part’s on me, one job application, one budget spreadsheet, one actual step at a time.
The turmeric has permanently stained my favorite mug now. I kind of like it though—a nice little reminder that some changes stick with you, even if they’re not the transformative ones you originally hoped for. And honestly? That’s probably enough to ask of a warm, spiced drink on a cold morning. The rest is up to me.
