In Singapore, a city that moves fast and measures success in grades, rankings, and performance reviews, coffee is everywhere. It’s in crowded hawker centers, office towers, malls, and neighborhood cafes. For most people, it’s just fuel to keep going. For Bryant Toh, it has become something else entirely — a reason to slow down, sit with a young person, and ask how their heart is really doing.
Today Bryant Toh (@kawf.fee) is a youth worker in Singapore, working with teenagers who are often stressed, lost, or already falling behind in a system that doesn’t wait for anyone. He jokes that on paper that
“I’m a social worker, but I work directly with youth in Singapore,”
but behind that simple description is a job that’s emotionally heavy, often invisible, and deeply human.
Youth work in Singapore sits inside a pressure cooker. The expectations start early, from national exams to competition for “good schools,” to parents worrying constantly about their kids’ futures. By the time Bryant sits across from a young person, they’re often already exhausted — not just from school, but from feeling like they don’t measure up. He sees this every day in his work: teenagers who have been labeled “problems” or “troublemakers,” when in reality they are just scared, overwhelmed, or hurt.
“People think youth work is just hanging out with young people, but the truth is, the stakes are very real.”
That’s why relationship matters more than any program or curriculum. And that’s where coffee comes in.
Bryant didn’t grow up dreaming of being a youth worker. Like many of the young people he now supports, he carried his own unresolved pain for years. In the podcast, he talked about going through childhood experiences that left marks on him — conflict at home, moments of feeling unseen, emotions he didn’t know how to express. He doesn’t dramatize it, but he’s honest that these early wounds shaped the way he looks at young people now. The difference is that he had adults who eventually listened, and that changed everything. When it came time to choose a path in life, he knew he didn’t want to be just another person telling kids to study harder or behave better. He wanted to be the kind of adult he wished he had more of growing up: someone willing to sit down, listen, and stay.
That’s how he ended up in youth work — not because it was glamorous, but because it felt necessary. Over time, he became more and more aware of how hard it is for young people in Singapore to talk about deeper issues: family conflict, mental health, identity, pressure. The culture doesn’t always give space for those conversations, especially when everything looks fine on the outside. So Bryant started looking for something simple that could open a door. Something normal. Something disarming. Something that didn’t feel like therapy, even when the talks went deep.
So he turned to coffee.
He noticed that coffee was already “very big” in Singapore — cafes, latte art, specialty beans — and many of his youths were curious about it. Some wanted to be baristas. Some just liked the vibe of coffee shops. That curiosity became his bridge. In the podcast he described how a small idea turned into a regular practice:
“We created this program called Coffee and Conversations.”
It sounds simple, but that simplicity is exactly why it works. He brings coffee gear, beans, and brewing tools into the youth space. He shows them how to grind, how to pour, how to pay attention to time and taste. On the surface, it’s a fun, hands-on activity. But underneath, it’s a way to slow the room down and make space for stories.
He’s seen how holding a warm cup between your hands can make it easier to talk about things that are hard to say. Youths who would never open up in a formal counseling session sometimes start sharing their worries over a cup they brewed themselves. In the conversation, Bryant explained that “coffee was just a means” to something deeper — a way to help his teens “appreciate coffee a little bit better, specifically specialty coffee,” but also a way to show that someone cares enough to sit with them, listen, and stay present. Coffee gives them something to do with their hands while their hearts begin to speak.
The work isn’t glamorous. Much of Bryant’s time is spent checking in, following up, sitting through long silences, or hearing the same frustrations again and again. But when he talks about his job, there’s no sense of martyrdom. There’s a quiet conviction that this is what he’s supposed to be doing. He sees himself as a bridge between worlds — the world of systems and expectations, and the world inside a young person’s chest. Coffee has become part of that bridge: familiar enough to feel safe, special enough to feel like a treat, flexible enough to turn into a ritual they can carry with them.
When he talks about success, Bryant’s victories are small and human: the youth who finally comes back after disappearing; the quiet kid who starts initiating conversations; the moment when a teenager realizes they’re more than their exam results. In the podcast he reflected on how people often think youth work is just
“hanging out with young people… but the truth is heavier than people think… And sometimes all it takes is one adult who doesn’t give up.”
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Why His Story Matters to Us
Stories like Bryant Tol’s remind us why I’M NOT A BARISTA exists. Coffee is the language he speaks, but the real work happens in the silence between sips — when a teenager who never talks suddenly shares what’s going on at home, or admits they don’t know how to cope with the pressure anymore. In that sense, coffee is not the hero of this story. It’s the bridge. The excuse to sit down. The gentle ritual that makes hard conversations just a little easier to start.
We’ve seen this before. When we shared Damien O’Brien’s story, coffee was also the thing that opened the door — a way to talk about mental health without starting with the words “mental health.” Bryant is doing something very similar in Singapore. He’s not using coffee to impress; he’s using it to listen. In a city where young people are constantly measured, graded, and compared, he offers something different: a table, a warm cup, and a question that isn’t on any exam.
For us, that’s the heart of coffee culture. Not just the competitions, the gear, or the perfect recipes, but the way a simple cup can hold space for the people who are quietly struggling. You don’t need to be a world champion to make that kind of impact. You don’t need a title at all. Sometimes, all you need is a kettle, some beans, and the courage to stay present with a young person long enough for them to feel safe. That’s what Bryant is doing, one conversation at a time — and that’s why his story belongs here.
