Praxis: A Writing Center Journal • Vol. 23, No. 2 (2026)

Sis, Put That Playlist On and Sip Through the Emotions of Writing

Shewonda Leger
Florida International University
sleger@fiu.edu

Abstract

The emotional labor of writing often remains invisible to editors, readers, and institutions, yet writers still need practical ways to manage those emotions while producing work. Coffee shops have become my solution—spaces where I manage unseen emotions while writing, revising, processing feedback, and meeting institutional publication standards. In this article, I share my experiences with self-doubt while working on a chapter for an edited collection. I reflect on how choosing a comfortable workspace and attending to my emotional states allow me to define productivity on my own terms.

Sitting at Crema Gourmet to write this article, I ask myself: How vulnerable should I be? Rayana Jay’s “Undefeated” plays on repeat through my headphones, and its message about working “twice as hard for half the love” resonates with me. Jay wrote the song for Black women athletes, but the theme of pushing through obstacles resonates with my own experiences as a Black woman in academia. I think back to my past self, the one who wrote her first academic article, unsure of how to express her voice in scholarly spaces. She hadn't yet realized that academic publishing wasn’t just about ideas or sharing them. It would mean defining herself, claiming space, and learning not to dwell on emotions for too long but instead processing them to put words on the page if she wanted to earn tenure. 

The work ahead of me wasn’t physical, but mental. Even as I say this, I’m compartmentalizing, setting aside my body’s health needs to focus on emotional labor. My chronic conditions don’t pause for deadlines or breakthrough moments, but I’m asking them to wait anyway (we gon’ talk ’bout that another time). Let’s stick to emotions for now. This emotional labor I stay managing often goes unnoticed because it isn’t tracked or measured, and there isn’t space for it in annual self-evaluations. Yet, the unnoticed emotional effort is still a form of invisible labor. Invisible labor includes “activities that occur within the context of paid employment that workers perform in response to requirements (either implicit or explicit) from employers and that are crucial for workers to generate income, to obtain or retain their jobs, and to further their careers, yet are often overlooked, ignored, and/or devalued” (Crain et al. 6). When I recognize how I'm feeling, I can work through the stress, anxiety, and writer's block to actually produce work. However, this emotional labor remains invisible to those who judge my productivity by my number of publications.

So, how am I supposed to manage these emotions to write, revise, process feedback, and produce work that meets the standards? Coffee shops have become my writing space. I talk about the moments when coffee shops help me push through my emotional labor and keep publishing. Discovering new coffee shops to write in creates places where I can handle the weight of academic writing without letting it shut me down. Writing in these public yet cozy and comforting spaces helps me step back from the isolating pressures of academic publishing. When stress originates from the institution, sometimes all I want is a break from campus. The coffee shops serve as what Ray Oldenburg calls third places—areas that are neither home nor work, serving the community best to the extent that they are inclusive, local (16), and accessible. Being in a coffee shop not tied to the institution but connected to my community allows me to experience and process my anxiety and fear in a calm way. I can decompress and prioritize my mental health. Still, some days it’s too much, and writing feels impossible. On those days, I just sip my coffee or tea, eat my pastry, and chat with strangers. 

Writing in coffee shops can affect the writing and revision process, give emotional and creative support when we’re feeling vulnerable, and create places where we can focus on the embodied experience of writing by choosing where we work intentionally. I share my experiences as a reminder that it’s okay to acknowledge and work through your emotions while writing. We shouldn’t have to suppress our feelings. Public spaces, especially coffee shops, become a comfortable place to process what I’m carrying. I talk about how I move through those counterproductive moments that usually end in procrastination, and how I still find ways to get back to being productive, because the pressure to publish doesn’t go away. I describe feelings of self-doubt and hesitation, and how I pushed through them to write my first chapter in an edited collection. Being vulnerable shows that it’s okay not to have everything figured out, that finding my writing flow takes time, and it isn’t perfect. I’ve felt disappointed in myself for missing opportunities because I spent too much time on drafts and uncertainties, letting self-doubt and perfectionism hold me back. I’ve felt guilt as I’ve asked for extensions, worried that I was adding to someone else’s labor, even as I scrambled through the precarious pre-tenure expectations of constant productivity. Despite these setbacks, I’ve learned to embrace my publication process, accepting the messiness of drafts that don’t yet make sense and recognizing slow progress as enough. Just having moments where I can notice and work through my emotions is enough.

Describing Coffee Shops

Coffee shops are neutral ground for people to gather. A “place where individuals may come and go as they please, in which none are required to play host, and in which all feel at home and comfortable” (Oldenburg 46). Alternatively, when coffee shops become a workspace, in the context described throughout this article, the space is a coffice or coffee-office, “an urban labour practice of working in a coffee shop” (Droumeva 119). There is also “the notion of ‘coffitivity,’ or the kind of productivity one derives not only from the stimulation of the coffee drink itself but also from the chaotic, communal, semi-public space of the urban cafe” (Droumeva 119). This concept of coffitivity demonstrates how individuals engage in environment selecting and structuring processes, which Prior and Shipka define as “the intentional deployment of external aids and actors to shape, stabilize, and direct consciousness in the service of the task at hand” (219). Workers deliberately choose and utilize the coffee shop's ambient noise, communal energy, and physical layout to enhance their productivity and focus. Despite the constant motion, people in these spaces can still be productive. The communal aspects lead to belonging, where diverse individuals share a neutral ground as a third space. This communal energy aligns with Stacy Pigg’s observation that “places meant to be moved through have long been important to how rhetorical scholars understand processes of generating new ideas and participating in community life” (Pigg 31). Coffee shops are exactly this kind of transitional space where people come and go. Yet this movement, which could distract me, instead generates the energy I need to write productively. The way we choose and occupy our writing spaces is important when academic writing carries so much emotional weight.

Finding Place in Public Space

Corinne Bailey Rae’s “Put Your Records On” plays through my headphones as I sit on the wooden stool at Ella Cafe. My words flow onto the page as she sings out, “find yourself somewhere, somehow.” I'm calm, present in the moment, and writing. I'm here.  

I inhale the freshly ground coffee beans filling the air as I reach for my matcha tea, feeling the warmth of the ceramic mug in my hands. The rustic wood around me feels like a gentle embrace, adding more warmth to my body. There are moments when I lose myself in my writing and thoughts. I occasionally pause to observe the people who come and go. I glance at the handwritten menu boards just enough to keep my people watching lowkey. The ceiling beams and track lighting cast shadows that subtly shift as the afternoon light changes. I’ve been in this space all morning, and it’s nearing closing time. After countless hours sitting on this wooden stool, what started as a simple space has gradually become something more meaningful, a place of solace, my writing space. This shift shows how we form attachments with physical places through repeated presence and practice. 

Yi-Fu Tuan’s distinction between “place” and “space” offers a lens for understanding how physical locations become emotionally significant through repeated embodied engagements and exchanges. Tuan describes place as a location imbued with personal meaning through repeated engagement, while space represents the abstract potential for such investment. Ella Cafe started as a space, but my personal interactions transform it into a unique and embodied place where I am comfortable writing. Here, physical locations exist as neutral entities, but the interactions and exchanges that occur within them allow space to shift and evolve continuously. 

As Ahmed argues, “space acquires ‘direction’ through how bodies inhabit it, just as bodies acquire direction in this inhabitance” (Queer Phenomenology 12). This reciprocal relationship between bodies and space deepens Tuan’s understanding of how meaningful places emerge. While Tuan focuses on the temporal aspect of place-making through repeated engagement, Ahmed reveals the simultaneous process by which space and inhabitant mutually constitute each other. Tuan’s observation that “Place is security, space is freedom: we are attached to the one and long for the other” (3) captures the emotional dimension of this transformation, where the “direction” Ahmed describes becomes invested with feelings of security and place attachment. 

The coffee shops where I choose to write are places rich with meaning, familiarity, and emotions. I’m aware of how my Black body moves through and occupies space and how my presence is read, observed, welcomed, or excluded. My awareness of being in public spaces connects to Sara Ahmed’s work on phenomenology and orientation, where she explores how bodies navigate spaces and how some bodies are accepted while others face discomfort. At Ella Cafe, I sense this welcome in the way the baristas remember my usual order, how the wooden stool that may be uncomfortable to others is comfortable to me, but it has become “mine,” and in the nods and smiles of recognition from other regulars who have also claimed their own place in this shared space. However, the attachment I have developed at Ella Cafe and other local coffee shops is neither automatic nor permanent. This attachment develops through repeated visits and familiarity with the space, such as knowing which seat works best for my writing, understanding the flow of busy and quiet times, and reading the subtle cues of the environment. The comfort I find in these public spaces, which I now consider writing spots, is built through ongoing engagement with the physical and social rhythms. As someone who writes in coffee shops, my presence raises larger questions about visibility, like who has the right to occupy space, who gets to linger over a single drink for hours, and whose presence is seen as productive versus disruptive. My decision to write in coffee shops affirms that this public space can also serve as my office, a place for creative and academic work.

When I write at coffee shops, I'm not just occupying a public space but also working toward entering academic spaces—journals, conferences, conversations—that carry their own histories of who belongs. Coffee shops become places where I work through both positive and negative emotions to assert my scholarly voice, spaces where the theoretical concepts of place-making and place attachment play out in the practical work of academic writing.

Academic Labor + Emotional Labor = Counterproductive

Ahmed argues that “rather than emotions being understood as coming from within and moving outward, emotions are assumed to come from without and move inward” (The Cultural Politics of Emotion 9). The emotions we feel and experience are our reactions to external pressures, situations, people, or spaces that trigger internal responses we must confront and manage. 

Academic publishing has taught me how intensely emotional and embodied the writing process is. The pressure to publish for tenure brings waves of anxiety, self-doubt, nervousness, and vulnerability that I carry in my body. However, when my finished writing is published, those emotions shift to pride, confidence—damn girl, you did that, joy, peace, strength, and optimism for the next writing task. The constant fluctuation of negative and positive emotions not only impacts my mental health and well-being but also causes me to question my place in academic spaces and what it takes to feel like I belong. Still, I stay in academia because there’s a certain power, resistance, empowerment, and complex sense of self that comes with occupying space that was never meant to include me and shifting it into a place that now has representations of my lived experiences as a Haitian American scholar.  

The college campus holds memories from my undergraduate years to now—from crying at the turtle bridge after failing organic chemistry a second time, to planning events for student organizations, to spending hours as a graduate student working on my dissertation. Now, as an assistant professor, I teach, hold office hours, and navigate the endless demands of faculty life. I've moved through these spaces without pausing to check how I'm feeling, which has led to burnout that affects my ability to write.

On days when I’m feeling burnt out, being on campus doesn’t help my writing flow. Now, when it’s time to switch into writing mode, I feel tired and overwhelmed from giving so much throughout the day. I’m burnt out and need a different space to mentally reset. My windowless office feels stifling—my shoulders tense before I even open my laptop. I hear the air vent and the office doors opening and closing around me. The walls carry conversations from neighboring offices. I listen to meetings in the conference room down the hall and faculty conversations with students. The clicking of heels and footsteps, and the sound of the department printer. These subtle but obvious sounds make my body feel both distracted and alert, reminding me that I am in an institutional space and I’m sitting here trying to complete another task after a long day of already checking off a long list. I may not get much writing done in my office, but it's where I catch up with colleagues. We drop in on each other to chat, share ideas, or check in, and those moments matter.   

So, what happens when a place meant for knowledge production and sharing turns into a space of exhaustion and depletion? Realizing that the campus has become a source of external pressure that drains my energy and overwhelms my emotions, I seek an alternative space to write, one with external factors that support “productive writing.” 

Yup, I’m stressed but actin’ chill. I pack up. Put on my noise-canceling headphones. Walk across campus. I search Google Maps for coffee shops, looking for a space that can become a productive place.

Most likely, the deadline to submit my manuscript is approaching, and I’m nowhere close to finishing. I fall behind and I’m not publishing as quickly as I’m “supposed to” or meeting the expectations placed on me, as well as my own. The pressure to "fit" isn't just intellectual—it's emotional too. To claim academic space, I have to constantly produce work that meets institutional standards while managing emotions that remain invisible.

Social Space + Cultural Space = Productivity

Coffee shops function as social and cultural spaces where interactions shape how identities and cultural norms are expressed, reproduced, and challenged. Henri Lefebvre explains that “(social) space is not a thing among other things, nor a product among other products: rather, it subsumes things produced and encompasses their interrelationships in their coexistence and simultaneity – their (relative) order and/or (relative) disorder” (73). Lefebvre’s explanation implies that social spaces are not static locations but are constantly shaped by the dynamic relationships between people's activities and creations within that environment. Meanwhile, cultural space develops through the complex interplay of traditions, language, and shared experiences that occur in a particular place. In Queer Phenomenology, Ahmed examines how our orientations toward objects, bodies, and spaces profoundly influence how we inhabit and navigate our surroundings. Ahmed shows that people navigate social and cultural spaces differently based on their identity and personal history, highlighting that spatial experiences vary for each individual. Similarly, in Yearning: Race, Gender, and Cultural Politics, bell hooks examines “marginal spaces” as sites of resistance and possibility, illustrating how spaces marked by intersections of race, class, and gender can transform into powerful locations of cultural production and community building. With these theoretical frameworks, coffee shops epitomize both social and cultural practices.

Coffee shops are social spaces through the diverse ways people occupy them, whether grabbing a quick coffee, working, socializing, or even on a date, while at the same time acting as cultural spaces where different communities and cultures bring their practices, languages, and traditions into dialogue with one another. Sitting at A Family: Argentinian Delicious Things, my go-to coffee shop close to home, puts into practice Lefebvre, hooks, and Ahmed's ideas about social and cultural spaces.

Their motto, “Cooking with family love so that our delights become a balm for the soul,” perfectly captures what happens in that space. The staff creates an atmosphere that’s genuinely warm and welcoming. They’re known for their empanadas and pastries, so I’ve made it a personal practice to learn the Spanish names of my favorite Argentinian pastries. My favorite pairing with coffee or matcha is the alfajor maizena. It’s a sandwich cookie filled with thick dulce de leche and rolled in shredded coconut.

A Family functions as both a social and cultural space through our embodied interactions. By learning to say pastry names in Spanish, I’m not just ordering food; I’m participating in a cultural exchange. Through my interactions with the staff, the space becomes more than just a place to grab coffee and food and write; it becomes a comforting and emotionally fulfilling place. Being in a place like that, where Argentinian culture is shared so generously, creates the kind of soulful experience their motto promises. Being in that space alleviates some of the stress I usually feel when it comes to academic writing. Whatever stressful emotions I walked into that space carrying temporarily leave, and I’m in a more relaxed mindset to write.

Calm and comfortable, I put words on the page. I’m not worried about where I am in the writing process, the manuscript deadline, or how reviewer feedback has affected my emotions. Instead, I enter a space where writing shifts from academic and emotional labor into a source of fulfillment. I remember why I chose a career where I can write and share lived experiences. During these productive sessions, I feel accomplished and confident; my ideas become clearer, my arguments feel stronger, and my creativity flows. I build momentum, clear my mind, and make tangible progress toward what once felt like impossible deadlines.

I’m hyped. I'm flowin’. 

The Weeknd’s song “Take My Breath” becomes my soundtrack, with its message about taking risks and feeling alive. The confident, driving beat of “Take My Breath” mirrors the self-assured momentum. Just as the song’s steady four-on-the-floor rhythm provides a strong foundation that keeps the track moving forward, I find myself in a clear and focused mental state, which leads to a similar sense of progress. 

Sis, These Emotions Keep Takin’ Over

The next two experiences describe the emotions I felt while writing my chapter “UNTWINE: Navigating Memories through Healing and Self-Definition,” for the anthology Narrating History, Home, and Diaspora: Critical Essays on Edwidge Danticat. These emotional moments I went through show how external academic pressures and internal doubts can slow down the writing process.

Self-Doubting in Paradise

I was sitting in a coffee shop in Zanzibar, Tanzania, working on my chapter. I can’t remember the name of the place, but I vividly remember writing there. It was my first time returning to the project since the proposal was accepted for an edited collection. The publishers sent back feedback and set deadlines, and now it was time to submit a full chapter, my first official publication, a piece that would count toward tenure.

I remember feeling pressure to meet certain expectations when it came to publishing: the pressure to sound “academic enough” and to produce something meaningful that would be “accepted.” Not only being accepted by publishers but also by other scholars in the field. I wanted to discuss Danticat’s work in a way that continues to add to the beauty of how she portrays Haitian culture. Her work’s embodiment of Haitian oral traditions, family and community practices, spirituality, history, and politics initially drew me to her writing. It was an honor to have the chance to expand on my favorite Haitian writer’s work. That made me even more nervous to write this chapter. I also felt pressure because I’m a Haitian woman analyzing the work of another Haitian woman. I felt the weight of representation, that I needed to get it “right” not just academically, but culturally. Would other Haitians find my analysis relatable? Was I qualified to speak about our collective lived experiences? What if my interpretation didn't align with how other Haitians saw Danticat’s work? What if I missed something crucial that someone from my own community would expect me to notice or mention? I doubted my ability to analyze Danticat’s work, and this doubt, along with the fear of not meeting expectations, slowed my writing process. That pressure was magnified by my own fears. 

Even in a relaxed space filled with bright colors and the scent of freshly baked bread, self-doubt prevented me from writing effectively. I couldn’t overcome my inner criticism. Every sentence I wrote felt like it had to carry the weight of representation, my academic voice, and my cultural identity. I kept deleting sentences and paragraphs, writing sections that I knew would need significant revision, going back to reread parts of the novel Untwine for additional quotes, and convincing myself I needed more sources before continuing to write. I stalled more than I wrote that day. There were moments when I tried to work through the emotion of self-doubt, but I just couldn’t get out of my head. 

My struggle with self-doubt felt bigger than me; it grew out of academic expectations that made me feel like I always had to prove myself, and at that moment, I couldn’t. I felt that anything I published had to be perfect, without mistakes, without flaws, because I knew that any imperfection might prove that I didn’t belong. As Ahmed suggests, these feelings of self-doubt originate from external pressures within the academic publishing system itself, where editors and publishers decide which voices are heard, which stories are valued, and which scholarship gets recognized. This system can be especially harsh for scholars from underrepresented backgrounds who seek representation. Reviewer feedback can evoke strong emotions; harsh critiques can make us question our abilities, while praise can create pressure to maintain standards. Over time, these external voices become internalized, shaping how we perceive our work and our worth. The truth is, we don’t always need academia, editors, publishers, or reviewers to be tough on us; often, we assume that role ourselves, becoming our own biggest obstacle by carrying the very barriers we aim to break through.

Permission to be Slow

Sitting at the Brewing Buddha Cafe, I opened the document with the editors’ feedback and saw about fifty comments scattered throughout the text. The number of comments and track changes caused anxiety. I didn’t know how to start, but I knew I had to begin the revision process, even when I was unsure of what to do or how to do it. My being overwhelmed is tied to deeper concerns about academic productivity. If it took me this long to write one chapter, how could I possibly produce enough work to earn tenure? My colleagues published multiple articles, while I struggled to finish one chapter. If other scholars could produce “article after article” while I spent hours writing two paragraphs and didn’t address as much reviewer feedback as I would have liked in one sitting, what does that say about me as a writer? This comparison increased my academic anxiety, making me worried about tackling these revisions. I need to address my academic anxiety because I was beginning to feel unproductive. 

Academic anxiety involves worry, emotional responses, task-related interference, and procrastination (Hooda and Saini 808). I worried that I wouldn’t have enough time to address all the reviewers’ feedback by the deadline. During this anxious moment, intrusive thoughts disrupted my focus and made it difficult to work. I became tense and distracted myself by scrolling through Instagram. Before I knew it, 45 minutes had passed. I procrastinated, and I hadn’t made any progress on revising the chapter. I became unproductive, and the time I planned to spend writing was almost gone. The pressure to meet the deadline created a constant mental distraction, making it hard to concentrate on the feedback. Physical tension and racing thoughts overwhelmed me when I should have been revising. Mental distractions caused me to jump between different pieces of feedback rather than work through them systematically, leaving me feeling scattered and flustered by the amount that needed to be changed. I procrastinated more than I should have. I caught myself avoiding the work. Procrastination helped me to temporarily escape the anxiety, but after a while, this only reduced my time to work on the chapter and increased the pressure. My body’s responses to anxiety slowed my revision process: instead of moving directly from feedback to implementation, I got stuck in worry, avoidance, and distraction.

These experiences show how anxiety makes writers process information more slowly, not because we lack the ability to write, but because our mental resources become divided. When anxiety is present, part of our brain’s capacity is used to handle worry and emotional regulation instead of focusing on the task of revision. As a result, writing and revision take longer because anxiety adds extra cognitive load to our thinking. Recognizing this helped me realize that my slower pace wasn’t a failure, but a natural response to the emotional pressures of academic work, and that working slowly can still be productive and meaningful. My slow writing pace increased these concerns: Would my changes meet the reviewers’ expectations? Was I interpreting their feedback correctly? What if I ran out of time to address everything that needed attention? 

Next to my laptop and pile of books, my cup contained lavender Earl Grey. The description of this tea states that it is floral and notably soothing, evoking relaxation—perfect for lavender lovers like myself.

The coffee shop offered something different from institutional spaces: permission to be slow. The Brewing Buddha Cafe invited presence over productivity. Ahmed’s insight in Queer Phenomenology explains that emotions shape bodies and spaces influence not just where we can go, but how we can exist there. I could feel my shoulders gradually releasing the tension I had been carrying. My breathing deepened to match the room’s slow-paced atmosphere. The coffee shop’s spatial design includes high tables by the window for gazing outside, no visible clocks, and instead, pictures and recipes of lattes and teas decorate the walls. This space was designed around bodies that linger rather than bodies that rush. Whenever I felt the anxiety returning, I took moments to inhale and exhale slowly. I listened in on conversations around me. I closed my eyes and took slow sips of tea. Unlike institutional spaces, where speed and output often measure worth, the Brewing Buddha Cafe created a space that was unhurried and relaxed. It was okay for me to sit in stillness and process my anxiety. That day, I wasn’t able to address most of the feedback, but I was still productive despite my slow pace. I was willing to make the revisions but I need to understand these emotions because revision is just as much about self-awareness and caring for my mental health as it is about satisfying the editor’s feedback. My procrastination began to seem less like a failure and more like a necessity. It was my body’s way of telling me to slow down.

I reminded myself that there’s nothing wrong with slow, careful, deliberate writing, as it can be a sign of self-care. Slow revision isn’t necessarily a failure; it reveals ways to connect with my emotions while I engage deeply with the ideas in my chapter. I was revising at a pace that felt right. The idea that coffee shops give permission to be slow challenges assumptions about the fast-paced productivity culture in academia. What if more academic spaces focused on presence rather than productivity demands? What if academic culture made more room for the slow, careful work of thinking through complex ideas instead of constantly pressuring scholars to produce faster?

Another Sip and a Final Sentence  

My point isn’t that supportive writing spaces don’t exist on campus. Universities have coffee shop-style environments, writing centers have established welcoming atmospheres, and there are writing hubs on campus for collaboration. These initiatives represent an important recognition of writers’ need for social, cultural, and comfortable work environments. However, it’s okay for academics to take a break from institutional spaces to better understand and manage their emotions. My own writing challenges have taught me that caring for my well-being is necessary, even when facing pressures and deadlines. Sometimes the most productive choice is to not be present in certain spaces while choosing to be fully present in others. Being aware of how my emotions affect productivity and how different places influence those emotions has helped me develop writing habits that support my emotional needs rather than work against them.

I’m at Foxtail Coffee, listening to “Strength Courage & Wisdom” by India Arie as I finish this article. Taking a deep breath, I feel the tension in my body loosen as I type this last sentence.

Works Cited

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Rayana Jay. “Undefeated.” Hollywood Records, 27 July 2018.

The Weeknd. “Take My Breath.” Dawn FM, XO/Republic Records, 2021.

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