Metablognition: Five Years of Lauralicious-ness

Five years ago, I started a blog. (Also, I must say: starting to drink coffee and starting a blog happened within just a few weeks of each other. I believe in predestination and I am convinced that those two things happening so close together are not and could not be a coincidence.)

Metacognition is “thinking about thinking.” This is metablognition: blogging about blogging.

February 28, 2013: Clemson hadn’t won a National Championship since 1981. All In had been open for less than a year. I was a college freshman majoring in elementary ed and I kind of dabbled in writing. And my, how everything has changed: Clemson, All In, and Love Lauralicious!

Lauralicious, Year 1

I thought of deciding to start a blog as an independent, adult decision; no one suggested it to me. I didn’t know many real-life people with blogs (a few friends started blogs after I started mine and I felt like a trendsetter, but also correlation is not causation). One afternoon in class the idea really just popped into my head, and then the next morning, I posted my very first post (link here). I usually take more time and use more thought when making decisions, but deciding to start a blog and then just doing it was exhilarating, and I was so glad that I did it the way I did.

It was empowering. It was all mine. My name was on it. I was in charge.

I tend to feel uncomfortable when lots of people are looking at me, but also I very much want positive attention (#complicated), and having a blog allowed me to express myself without being stared at. It also allowed me to write and have actual readers! I love and need to write, which I didn’t really know about myself yet. The blog gave me a) a platform to write and b) writing accountability.

I had never known how to tell people that I like to write. Blogging showed me how: by doing the thing. By writing.

Lauralicious, Year 2

The platform the blog gave me was an interesting one – most of my readers were my Facebook friends and sometimes the people those people knew, if a post got shared, and, occasionally, a rando in Australia or sometimes Russia. (I almost definitely know no one in Australia/Russia.) A few times in college, people I didn’t know (who knew someone I knew) introduced themselves to me as occasional readers of my blog (I don’t want to exaggerate. This happened two, maaaaaybe three times but it was very exciting when it did!). Once, I saw someone I didn’t know reading my blog. Obviously this happened at All In.

(Sidebar: there is a 100% chance that Love Lauralicious would not a) exist or b) be any good even at all or c) still be alive if it were not for All In Coffee. I know I have made it clear many a time, but I LOVE THAT PLACE [and the people, and the coffee, and the baked goods, and especially my table there] with all that I am and all that I have, and I very much always will.)

And having a blog also gave me writing accountability: if I didn’t post for a while, people noticed! And they encouraged me to write! I hadn’t anticipated how helpful that would be. People even thought of me as a writer. This was a wonderful and vulnerable and exciting feeling.

Blogging gave me confidence as a writer. I don’t want to force my opinion on anyone, and I know that no one asked me for my opinion on anything, yet I really really want to be heard and known (again with the #complicated and also #needy). Writing on my blog means that no one is being forced to read these words. If you don’t like them, you can stop reading (and if you do like them, please keep reading, and also love me!).

Lauralicious, Year 3

Love Lauralicious became like its own little person, like I had a baby that had some spunk and a lot to say. People asked me how both I and the blog were doing in the same breath, and I loved that.

Then something happened…I think I lost my momentum. I froze up. One too many people told me that I write just like I talk, and I decided that’s not how I want my writing to be. I wanted my writing to be thoughtful and deep and purposeful. I didn’t want people who read my words to feel like they were having a conversation with me, because this is not a conversation, or even just me talking: this is writing. It’s a completely different format from talking, and I thought it should be respected as such. This is where I get to write what I think and you can read it or you can choose to not. I got really weird about my use of the pronoun “you” (as in, I didn’t use it ever. My writing got strangely formal) and using a hashtag in a blog post seemed quite blasphemous to me.

I clammed up and I got self-conscious and I used the excuse that I was super busy with other things (and I really was very busy!). I blogged less often, and when I did, the content was more serious yet not as engaging or real. I wasn’t as proud of what I wrote and I was afraid of feedback because I was blogging to blog and not because I was passionate about my words or even just the process of putting down words to share. Looking back, I think I should have given myself a sabbatical.

Lauralicious, Year 4

Eventually I realized that I was being ridiculous and no fun. In time, I changed some things: I started a series and gave myself a goal for how often I wanted to post. I lightened up a bit. I clarified to myself who I was writing for. I decided that, yes, I want my writing to be thoughtful and deep and purposeful, but I also want it to be a little funny, and in general a mostly non-miserable experience, with a little bit of my personality thrown in, because this is my name on it – so it’s okay for my personality to show up in reading it.

Blogging has brought me more anguish than I anticipated. I thought it was just going to be endearing and fun, but it’s been hard and scary and introspective, and occasionally embarrassing, too. Overall, it has also been good and full of learning, which is what keeps me coming back (well that, and that I get to write). I have learned, and I have written – which was, of course, the original intent.


Also, let’s just not forget the time that I blogged a letter to Miley Cyrus and then I tweeted the link at her and she liked my tweet. I doubt that she actually read my letter, but she acknowledged it, so that was cool.

In the spirit of looking back, here are the links to some of my favorite posts from these five years:







I love to reflect and to think about the past. But I know that the future is the part that comes next, and when I think of the future of the blog, I get a little nervous. I don’t know what happens next; that’s the very scary thing about making it up as you go along.

I know the best way to achieve something is to have goals. Right now, these are my blogging goals:

  • to not give up on the blog,
  • to put less pressure on it,
  • for it to not fizzle out (or: for me to not fizzle out),
  • to stay faithful to it.

I’m a special ed teacher and and I write goals for a living and I know that these goals are not specific or measurable. Their criteria for mastery are extremely vague, I am aware. But I’m going to stick with them because this is a blog, not an IEP, and because I’m not getting paid to do this (#justsaying).

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Lauralicious, Year 5

This is my reflection on five years of blogging: I am proud and I am thankful, and I am so glad words exist.



Posted in nostalgia, post-college

Coffee Shop Saturdays

My ideal Saturday has me spending the majority of the day at my coffee shop. It’s nice to sit down and work on blogging or writing and get my life together. It’s nice to be around people but not have to talk to them. It’s nice to drink good coffee.

I like to wake up and take my time getting to where I’m going, and I like to hang out in a place that has noise that can be blocked out, and I like to spend time with my brain. I like to leave smelling like coffee.

In Clemson, I had the best coffee shop. (I think my love and devotion to it is very clear.) I go every time I’m home. It’s familiar and lovely and smells great and my favorite table is there and it’s the first place I ever tried coffee. I’ve laughed and cried and been angry there. I’ve had coffee dates and study dates and productive times and very unproductive times.

But that’s not where I live anymore, and now I’ve found an adequate coffee place in this new town. It’s no All In, but of course it’s not. It’s modern and sleeker and there are fewer Clemson people there (but there are some!). It’s different but I can live with it. Also, I never call it by its name. I always call it, “the coffee shop.”

I like routine, and coffee shop Saturdays is part of my routine. It’s relaxing while also productive. And even though I thought I couldn’t live without All In, it turns out that I was thinking very rigidly. Coffee shops are everywhere, and none of them are the same (and nothing beats your first love). A place that lets me work and rest in quiet and busy-ness is good.

Disclaimer: Obviously All In is my first love and the most important. But this could grow on me. However, I seriously doubt that I’ll do push-ups in the bathroom here after drinking too much coffee. I’ve learned since then how much coffee my body can take in a small amount of time. I will always love All In for being the place where that happened.

A good coffee shop is worth finding.



Posted in literature, nostalgia


“Reading is not walking on words, but grasping the souls of them.” – Paulo Friere

The summer between my kindergarten and first grade year, my mom made me read a book every single day. I whined and complained and dragged on about it, but I did it anyway. Then, in first grade, I was the best reader in my class. Thanks, Mom!

Now I’m attached to books. If reading was a magnet, I’d be all the metal in the world, spending my existence reaching for books. If literacy was the ocean, I’d grow gills so I could live surrounded on all sides by and soaking in it. If books were coffee, I’d be the most jittery and awakened person alive.

Books to me are like a security item. If they’re too far from me, I kind of feel like I don’t know what to do with my hands. I don’t go anywhere without a book in my purse (even to bars! It makes me feel spunky! But also, I don’t go to all that many bars).

I like to lend books to people because it’s nice to share what I love, and I like to think that I know people well enough to prescribe what they will enjoy reading. I love to talk about what I’ve read with others. Reading is a solitary sport but it can be social, too.

One time I let a friend who didn’t know what to read (she was having what you might call “reader’s block”) borrow several of my favorite books. After she had finished them, she returned them to me on a summer day in a plastic Walmart bag. I pulled them out of the bag unceremoniously but then my heart was unveiled: this was us being reunited! This was a joyous occasion! My books were warm coming out of that bag because they had missed me. Their fluttery hearts were beating and so was mine. We were so mutually thrilled to be back together. That is dedication.

A good book is like a good burger. You can’t put it down until it’s been consumed, because you know that if you do, the whole world will fall apart.

This picture is from Google. My arms are not quite that hairy.

People say things like, “reading takes you to new places!” and it’s true! It does! But these phrases are overused, and then they don’t sound very inspirational anymore. Really, they sound like they’re trying to sell something. I am not trying to sell anything. I’m just trying to communicate this very exciting thing!

Because literacy! It’s no joke!

I love reading. I. LOVE. IT. It’s nothing short of amazing to me that I can empathize with someone who’s been dead for many moons, or be in places that don’t even exist, just by looking from left to right, left to right, line by line, on a funky rectangle made out of dead tree.

It’s incredible, really, just like how sugar and flour and eggs all stirred up together with chocolate chips creates magic (chocolate chip cookies), letters and spaces all stirred up together with pieces of punctuation creates stories and ideas and communication and prose and poetry! It’s truly amazing. It’s like alchemy, but it’s real, and it’s definitely a good thing.

The invention of the wheel was revolutionary for humanity, and so was sliced bread (“that’s the greatest thing since sliced bread!”). And while both of these things are important and worth recognition, I think the written word and the printing press are undercelebrated. They have brought us so far, given us so much, allowed such progress! Where would humanity be without writing and reading?

If you think about it, reading a book is kind of like a small miracle. So much goes into it: an author putting in their whole soul, the editing and publishing process, and then a book ending up in my own hands! It’s nothing short of predestination, for the book and for me.

I want to find joy in the life that’s around me, and here is some! It’s in my hands, and my nose is buried in it.

It’s glory, and it’s all around.



Posted in life, nostalgia

Not Clemson

Life is hard. It’s hard to be responsible – both for myself and for others (I am responsible for students’ learning and that is simultaneously a great honor and so terrifying). It’s hard to be in a new place. It’s hard to grow up.

At first, moving away was exciting. There was an apartment and a classroom to set up. I was in a new place and it was fun to explore! And also, there are like three Targets in driving distance here. That’s pretty different.

But the excitement of a new place and new things slowly turned less exciting. And now, I’m still here, and this is not Clemson.

All of this has me missing home like I never have before. I miss the particulars and the Clemson-ness of it.

I miss tiger paws painted on the roads. I miss Spill the Beans on summer evenings. I miss passing cars I recognize. I miss running on the sidewalk past my dentist’s office after school. I miss being close to Camp and being able to visit whenever I want. I miss seeing my family all over town and I miss my house. I miss All In like nobody’s business.

I miss feeling like my town knows me just as much and well as I know it. I miss Clemson being my landing pad.

I knew it would be hard to be away. I lived in only one place for 22 years, and I loved it. And then I decided to leave it. So I wasn’t expecting it to be easy.

However, it’s different to know that something hard is coming in the future than to be in the middle of a hard thing and realizing that oh, this is that.

But just because life is hard and I miss my mom’s cookies doesn’t mean I should go home. Just because I wave at every Clemson-stickered car doesn’t mean I need to be there.

Hard things are often also good things. I love Clemson, but that doesn’t mean the best thing for right now would be for me to live there (by that logic, I’d probably be living in Spain).

I know that I live here but right now, Clemson has more of my heart.

The sky can be pretty here too
But: I am growing here. Small, tiny roots are sticking into the ground. It doesn’t mean I’ll be here forever, but I’d like to know that I can make it somewhere other than the one place I already have.
I know I made this choice to leave. Nobody asked me to go away from the most blessed town in creation (aka God’s country). I knew the transition wouldn’t be seamless, and this is that. I really hope it doesn’t take another 22 years to feel at home here.

But here’s something: yesterday I was at the grocery store, and I saw a friend’s car in the parking lot. I was exuberant because that is progress. 



Posted in Camp, college, life, nostalgia

The Same Lake

Last summer, the July before we started our senior year at Clemson, one of my roommates and I got a Peppino’s margherita pizza and picnicked at the Botanical Gardens. We sat there and ate during dusk and we chased frogs (I held the pizza box while she chased frogs). Then we went to the rowing docks and sat and talked. The sun had set and we were sitting on the dock in the quiet, being occasionally rocked by waves from boats taking night rides. At one point she had to take a phone call, so I sat and thought, and in my thinking I realized that I have spent my whole life on Lake Hartwell.

No one admits to liking Hartwell. Keowee is preferred and Jocassee is ideal. Hartwell, in terms of Clemson area lakes, is like the Nickelback of lakes. But it’s the closest, and it’s the university’s lake, and it’s where the memories are.

All of my summers growing up were spent on Hartwell. I tagged along with friends whose parents owned lake houses and boats for afternoons and sleepovers and we had the most fun long, sunburn-y days. We had birthday parties jumping off of two-story docks. We sang Kelly Clarkson songs at the top of our lungs while holding on to tubes that my friends’ dads were trying to throw us off of. We made sand pies (like mud pies, but they don’t really stick together) and played pretend. We took evening boat rides and let the wind whip our hair dry. We took childhood and summer for granted, like kids are supposed to do.

Circa 2004-ish probably
When I wasn’t a kid anymore, I was a youth. I started youth group the summer before 7th grade. Everyone associated with the youth group gathered at the lake for a huge party: the Moving-Up Party. There was food; there were boats; there was that game where someone had to eat baby food. It was so youth group-y. It was new and exciting. It was pandemonium. It was grand.

All of my youth group years (especially summers) incorporated the lake. On Wednesday nights during the summers we met at people’s homes and everyone’s favorite were the homes that were on the lake. We swam, then got into small groups and prayed, then sat on the docks with our legs swinging in the water, in no rush to go home or get to the next thing. Those were peaceful evenings.

youth group at the Kriders’ lake house, 2009-ish

Starting my junior year of high school, I got to drive to school. It was liberating – and one of my favorite memories of independence from that time is spring of junior year, after AP exams, a bunch of us went to Y Beach and played volleyball and got our toes in the water. It was an ironic feeling: we felt like truants for being at the lake while our peers were at school, yet the reason we weren’t at school was because of advanced placement exams that those peers didn’t take. We felt like exceptions to the rules and it was exhilaratingly special.

Senior year none of us had full schedules and usually we used the spaces in our day to study or do homework together, but sometimes we would go to Supertaco (before it moved) and cross the highway to eat it on the boardwalk. These are grand memories.

post-AP exams celebration at Y Beach, junior year, May 2011

Camp is on Lake Hartwell, and I’ve spent now six summers swimming at lake play and riding the pontoon boat and fishing off the dock (never, in six years, have I caught one fish), tipping canoes, jumping on the water trampoline, etc. Once I had to swim a sailboat full of crying little Bowfins across the cove three times because I don’t actually know how to sail and the boat kept falling over.

(I still don’t know how to sail)
From my lofted bed in my dorm room freshman year at Clemson, I could see the whole stadium and beyond to the golf course and the lake. I didn’t even have to get out of bed to see it. On gamedays I slept in until as late as possible and then rolled over to see all of Clemson convening, cohesively dressed in orange, right below me. The people looked like orange ants, all moving toward the stadium. I felt such pride for my people and my town and my school – and they were all the same: Clemson. Home.
I felt like this view should be some kind of top secret. The view from the bed of my dorm was amazing and unfair – and in my favor.
College was full of spontaneity and adventure. We had picnics by the water, we had lake days, we took walks to the dikes, we ate milkshakes on the docks, we had talks in the sand, we went night-swimming, we got Atlas pizzas that we ate on the boardwalk, we studied at Y Beach, we ran to the lake and jumped in. It was a conduit of such adventure!
Dinner/Chick Fil A picnic with Freshman Five, fall 2012
(There really were five of us! The boys chose not to be documented)

And so this lake: this lead-filled, super green, oft-insulted/unappreciated lake ties together memories and activities from all of the twenty two years I’ve had on this earth. Each domain of my life has been impacted by Hartwell – silly Hartwell. And never, until I was so close to leaving, did I really even acknowledge and begin to appreciate it.

Moving Up Party at the Hubbards’ house, 2011

I’m a very sentimental person, and I know this about myself. So I know it’s trivial to be so attached to a lake – especially one that isn’t all that great. But Hartwell was never really attention-seeking. It just did its job, which was to sit there and hold water and let us take from it. It’s like the Giving Tree, but a lake. It’s a Giving Lake. Too far?

I’ve moved away, and coincidentally, I now work at Lake Carolina (I still have not located the actual lake, but I am assured that it is an actual lake somewhere), so Hartwell isn’t the only lake in my life anymore. But it was my first lake, and I’m thankful for it.

I unconditionally respect it and the times it has given me that have subsequently become a huge part of my Clemson memories.

I love this lake.
Posted in Camp, college, nostalgia

I Carry It In My Heart

On the first night of the second week of my third summer of Camp, I was a counselor in Bowfin, the littlest girls’ cabin. On Sunday night as we were tucking our girlies into their bunk beds, the tears came. Some of the girls had never spent the night away from home before. Some girls were just tired, which expressed itself through crying. And then when a thunderstorm started, so did the wailing.

It terrified all of the little girls and nobody could sleep. There were four counselors in Bowfin that week – three group counselors and one counselor-in-training, and we had eight campers, and each of us took care of calming down a bunk bed of girls.

That night was its own very specific kind of pandemonium: high school and college students rushing around a dark cabin in very hushed voices trying to get a bunch of little girls to peace and sleep. It was the kind of situation where I took a second and stopped and thought about what I was doing and smiled. I was surrounded by bawling baby girls, and I loved it. I was simply thrilled to be where I was in that one short moment.

One of our girls in Bowfin that week was a short, slightly chubby girl with blond hair. She was eight and a half, a little older than most of the other girls in our cabin. She was shy, but shy quickly dissipates at Camp when a group of eight girls and their four counselors do absolutely everything together and love each other so much. But it was only the first night, and her shyness was still there.

She was scared of the thunderstorm just like the other girls, but she wasn’t crying. I thought she was asleep because she wasn’t making any noise, but she asked me to come and just sit with her. She was scared and she was lonely.

And so once all of the other girls were settling down, when there were still sniffles but no more sobs, I went to sit with her. We whispered so quietly and she talked to me. She told me that her mom didn’t live with her family anymore, and she lived with her dad and her brother. She really loved them but she didn’t like being the only girl. Her brother was also at Camp that week and every time she saw him, she hugged him. He didn’t love it, but he let her do it, and I think he secretly did kind of love it. She asked me what my dad was like and I told her that he was goofy. She said her dad was too sometimes.

At the beginning of that week, we were very close. She called me Mama and I called her Baby. As the week went on, she needed me less – she bonded with the other girls and was silly and fun with them. Her shyness faded. But still sometimes, when we were walking somewhere, she would suddenly be next to me and holding my hand. It made me smile.

The week went by quickly – they all do. On Friday night, I was helping her pack up to go home. In one of her drawers I found a red plush velvet heart that said “Be mine.”

It wasn’t well-made, but it was soft and sweet. It was the kind of trinket that would have been just a trinket if she had not given it meaning.

She gave it to me. And I didn’t want to take it from her, but also I did. I tried to convince her to keep it, but she wanted me to have it. I kept it. Then the next day was Saturday and she went home. After she left that Saturday I worried about the heart – it was so small. I was afraid of losing it. At Camp, I live out of plastic purple trunks, and they’re filled with children’s books and socks and Reese’s wrappers and stationery and crafts that campers forgot and I wanted to keep to remember them by and pens and sunscreen and toenail polish bottles and beads. I knew my little heart would get mixed in with all of those things and I was afraid of it not appearing when I unpacked at the end of the summer.

But then it did appear! And once school started back that fall, I put the heart in my backpack, along with my jar of peanut butter, and carried those two things around with me everywhere I went.

Later that year I stumbled upon this e. e. cummings poem –

As I read it I thought of the heart that I physically carried around – the heart of that one little girl, and the other little girls that week, and the campers from that whole summer, and the campers from all of my years. I thought of how they each had my heart, like a horcrux, a soul split into a million pieces and spread all over the world in beautiful and sacred places. I thought about moments like the one from the first night of the second week of my third summer, where around me so many things were happening and there was really not time to pause and relish joy but I did because I was nothing but serenely delighted to be where I was, in happy-busy times, in times of running around but also times of singing and holding a hand or two.

The following fall semester, I had the opportunity to speak at a Sertoma Club meeting. I skipped a biology class to go with some other counselors to promote Camp to the Sertomans (Sertomen?). One of the questions I was asked was how Camp had impacted me long-term. I was nervous talking in front of all of those people, and even more so knowing that what I said could impact how they viewed Camp, but the thing that came out of my mouth was the little red plush heart given to me by a Bowfin who called me Mama. I told them that I kept the heart in my backpack with my peanut butter and that I thought of her and of all of my campers so many times every day, and that I felt that they were near when I carried her heart with me (in my heart).


Posted in college, life, nostalgia

A Happy Middle and a Very Happy Start

To be a senior, one must first be a freshman; a person can’t be experienced without experience. I knew that. I just didn’t know that I wouldn’t be a forever freshman, and that one day I would actually be at the point where I (ready or not!) became a senior and had some life experience. And now, here I am. When I talked to seniors before I was one of them, they said it felt different than it looked. They were right: I feel less noble and graceful than what being a senior looked like. And yet, here I still am.

I am only a two weeks into senior year, but it’s the beginning of the end. Endings are sad and hard. I’ve been in school for sixteen years, and if I teach after this, who knows how many more years of school I’ll have. But this sixteenth consecutive year of school is my last consecutive year as a student.

Being a student, I have learned – about school, life, friendships, people, cars, kitchens, money, communication, coffee, and more and more and more. And when I think about this allotted time of learning – “college” – ending, and going to a new, yet to be determined place and making new friends and having a new house and a new bookstore and a new coffee shop, the space in my chest where I normally breathe becomes smaller, and my thoughts ricochet off the walls of my head so much more quickly and disorientedly than usual.

My college apartment kitchen on a clean day. Much learning (usually the hard way) has happened here.
New things are scary, and it isn’t even time yet for me to embrace or go do my new things, but it’s time to know that they are in my foreseeable future, and that one year from now, I will be doing something different than the things I’ve done before. It makes me feel a little itchy. I like old things and familiar things, but sticking to old and familiar things and growing up are mutually exclusive, and I know which one I’m going to choose, and it’s not the easier one.
The hardest and most important part of learning new things is remembering them. The scariest part of doing new things is forgetting the old ones.
I want to remember college and I want to remember this. I want to remember being eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one. I want to remember my dorm room and my apartment. I want to remember my people – my friends, my roommates, my classmates, my professors, those random people I was friends with for like two days freshman year and then not anymore at all, and the people I’ve been running into but never actually spoken to for the past three-ish/four-ish years.
I want to remember the places I went and the things I did and all the times I jumped into the lake. I want to remember learning to cook and re-learning to ride a bike in DC over spring break sophomore year and learning who to call when I ran out of gas for the second time in a month. I want to remember the night when life felt like an episode of Friends. I want to remember watching just the Jim and Pam episodes of The Office on girls’ nights. I want to remember how much cookie dough I ate late at night when I should have eaten nothing at all, and how much I don’t even regret it.
People say, “this, too, shall pass,” during hard times, and it makes said hard times seem less permanent. During grand times and during youth and during college, however, people don’t say that. I think they should, because hard times are not the only times that shall pass. All time passes, and the speed at which it does so can’t be controlled.
A great (and scary-looking) man once said –

There are no happy endings,
Endings are the saddest part.
So just give me a happy middle
and a very happy start.

– Shel Silverstein

a great (and scary-looking) man
Even if things end well, they end sadly, because endings are fundamentally “the saddest part.” The ending of things, although necessary and sometimes a little overdue, is sad. The Head and the Heart says, “all things must end, darling,” and they must. If you love something, you should let it go, but that doesn’t mean it won’t hurt – maybe even a lot.
I had a “happy middle and a very happy start” to college. And (the beginning of) the end of college isn’t the end of life. It’s a necessary push, an “umph” to what’s next – new places, new roles, new patches of sky.