I’ve never been a fan of the phrase “All good things come to an end.” It feels heavy. Final. It suggests that true joy is fleeting and that everything we love is destined to fade. It’s like a promise of inevitable disappointment.
But lately, I’ve been grappling with the reality that some of the good things in my life—and in my city—have in fact come to an end.
Detroit has always been my anchor, my happy place. It’s where my energy thrives, where I feel the excitement of renovation and rebuilding around every corner. To me, the city is a celebration of renewal—new restaurants opening their doors, fresh ideas reshaping old spaces, and new people creating new stories.
Yet recently, I’ve felt the weight of loss in a way I hadn’t before. Favorite places—spots that felt like extensions of my own story—
have closed their doors. These weren’t just buildings or businesses, they were touchpoints of joy, places that held memories of firsts and lasts, of laughter and connection, of comfort. Some truly irreplaceable places that seemed like constants have simply closed.
I’ve been trying to reconcile it — the way a city can be both a beacon of possibility and a place of inevitable change. I tell myself all the comforting clichés: The only constant is change. When one door closes, another opens. But there’s a bittersweetness to these mantras when the reality hits home. Some endings aren’t just endings; they’re reminders that nothing, not even a city as resilient as Detroit, is immune to time and transformation.
One such place for me was 8 Degrees Plato—a beer store that became so much more than a beer store.
Since my now-husband and I started dating, we have loved to explore new places in Detroit, always searching for a new gem. One day, we set out to find a spot with a funny name we’d heard about. 8 Degrees … what? Was it a brewery? A shop? After wandering the Cass Corridor for a while, we finally stumbled upon it. As soon as we walked in, we felt it: warmth, a welcomeness, a community. It was genius—part beer store, part bar. You could sip a beer while shopping for more to take home!
It quickly became our spot. The place we stopped by on bike rides, parking our bikes out front, and greeting Tim, the owner, with a wave. We’d walk there from our apartment, bring friends along, telling everyone we knew and everyone we met about it. It was where we took our dogs – even our Great Dane and our wild Weimaraner seemed to find comfort there.
Over time, it became intertwined with our lives. The owners, Tim and Brigid, handled the beer and wine for our wedding, going above and beyond to make our day even more special. Friday nights were spent unwinding there, feeling the week’s weight lift as we shared laughs over a pint. Sundays often ended with “one last beer before the weekend’s over.” It was the backdrop for silliness, solace, and everything in between.
It’s also where we met some of our closest friends. I’ll never forget a packed Friday night a couple with two golden retrievers asked to join our table. By the end of the evening, we were laughing so hard our sides hurt, exchanging numbers, and planning our next visit. We saw them the next weekend there. And the next weekend. And the weekend after that. That couple became best friends of ours, and it all started there. In fact, the name of our text string is 8 Degrees Club.
For years, 8 Degrees Plato was a cornerstone of our Detroit story. We met so many interesting people there from all walks of life. And so many fantastic dogs. Oh, the dogs!
And then, late last fall, we learned it would be closing. It was surreal. Where would we go for that sense of reprieve, that home away from home?
At the end of the year, the owners threw a closing party. We went with those best friends we had met there and other best friends we had introduced to 8 Degrees. As I stood elbow-to-elbow in the packed space, memories washed over me, and I couldn’t hold back the tears. Tim and Brigid stood on the bar to thank everyone, their gratitude filling the room like a warm hug. They too, looked somewhat shell-shocked that this place holding so many memories would soon be just that – another memory.
Three days later, Tim worked the final shift, announcing the last call. We were there, of course, glasses raised, tears in our eyes.
A buddy said it best the next day: “It feels like we’ve lost a good friend.” That’s exactly what it feels like.
It’s an unavoidable truth that establishments in big cities come and go. It’s the natural ebb and flow of urban life, where change is constant and spaces can be fleeting. While it’s easy to intellectually understand this cycle, it doesn’t make it any less gut-wrenching when the place that closes is your favorite. It’s not just a shuttered door; it’s the end of a chapter, a goodbye to a space that felt like home. It’s a bittersweet reminder that cities, like the people in them, are always evolving.”
My husband and I will keep seeking out the city’s treasures. Detroit remains my anchor, my shining light. The city is still brimming with renewal and possibility. We’ll support new spots and old favorites, and we’ll undoubtedly run into Tim and Brigid or the regulars we came to know at 8 Degrees Plato.
But I’d be lying if I said it will ever feel quite the same. There’s an emptiness where that comfort once lived. A small reminder that some places, some moments, are simply irreplaceable. They leave a mark that no new favorite or fresh adventure can entirely fill.
The memories we made there are almost enough to make it okay. To let it go and move on.
Almost.
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