There’s a moment in every writer's life when they see their name in print for the first time, glowing up at them like it's been crowned by the Word Gods themselves. It’s a feeling that oscillates between "Yes, I am the next Joan Didion!" and "Oh no, what if my eighth-grade frenemy sees this and roasts me?" My first byline wasn’t exactly Pulitzer-worthy, but it felt like a blazing neon sign above my head flashing “Writer!” It was proof that somehow, through sheer willpower and a questionable obsession with syntax, I had arrived.

The Setup: A Love-Hate Relationship with Deadlines

The story begins, appropriately enough, in high school, with a teacher who had the patience of a saint and the red pen of my nightmares. Mrs. Tolman ran the school newspaper with the militant precision of a college football coach but sprinkled it with enough caffeine-fueled enthusiasm to keep us hooked. I had spent months on the sidelines, cranking out headlines and copyediting articles about students acing chemistry fairs and cafeteria food tragedies. I thought I loved writing—until she assigned me my first article: a profile of Coach Hernandez, who had just led our football team to their winningest season in years.

In many ways, it felt like a blind date with a looming disaster. I knew nothing about football, but I went in armed with a notebook, my dad’s castoff recorder (the kind reporters carried in ‘90s movies), and a determination not to embarrass myself.

The Game-Changer: Coach Hernandez and the Power of Storytelling

Coach Hernandez turned out to be a storyteller’s dream—a study in contradictions. Gruff on the sidelines but warm and quietly funny in conversation, he talked about strategy like he was describing fine art. I asked about his coaching philosophy, expecting some platitudes about teamwork, but he hit me with a curveball: “Winning doesn’t matter as much as cooking breakfast with my kids.”

There it was—gold. A quote worthy of a needlepoint pillow or at least a pull quote in "Sports Illustrated." And in that moment, something clicked. Writing wasn’t just filling up lines on a page; it was distilling the essence of someone’s story into something that mattered. By the time I finished the interview, all the pre-game butterflies had scattered. I knew I had something good.

Pressing “Send” (With One Eye Open)

I wrote that draft faster than I’d written anything in my life, fueled by sheer adrenaline and possibly too much Mountain Dew from the vending machine. I agonized over every word choice and fretted that I had no authority to write about football. By the time I hit “Send” to our editor (Mrs. Tolman, of course), it felt less exciting and more like sending off a first date thank-you text—desperation and dread bundled together in Courier font.

The article was published in that month’s issue, sandwiched between a piece about homecoming trends and a half-page ad for a local used car dealership. But there it was: "By Leslie Woodruff." A byline. My byline.

Did it feel surreal? Absolutely. Did I immediately hyperfocus on a typo in the second paragraph? Of course. (For the record, no one except me noticed.) But I also felt, in that tiny column of text, my identity shift. I wasn’t just someone who liked to string words together anymore; I was a writer. Or at least, I was on my way to becoming one.

Lessons From My First Byline

Over the years, I’ve had my name tacked onto plenty of stories—some I’m proud of, some I’d love to hurl into the Boise River—but that first byline taught me a few lessons about writing and, oddly enough, about life and relationships.

1. Be Curious About People

Coach Hernandez taught me that an unassuming person, place, or story often hides the best surprises. Whether it’s a football coach, a first date, or your neighbor who seems way too into beekeeping, there’s always a deeper layer. Ask questions that go beyond what you think you know—"What drives you?" or "Why do you love what you do?" Heck, it works in romantic relationships, too. Real connection starts with curiosity.

2. Dare to Write the Messy Draft (Of Anything)

I rewrote that article in my head at least 14 times before committing words to paper. Of course, the final draft didn’t roll out perfect on the first try, and that’s the point. That messy, typo-riddled first attempt was everything I needed to get to the good stuff. In life and dating, I think, we often hesitate to put ourselves out there for fear of failure (or, worse, rejection). But you’ve got to give yourself permission to stumble.

3. Celebrate the Little Wins

A byline might seem like a blip in the bigger picture of a writer’s life—and maybe it is. But back then, it was monumental. Sometimes, we’re so focused on the endgame—a relationship, the dream job, the next milestone—that we forget to pause and take in the tiny, satisfying “I did it” moments. Relish them. They’re the foundation for what comes next.

4. Imposter Syndrome Can Take a Seat

At every stage of a writer’s journey—or a relationship’s trajectory, for that matter—there’s that nagging voice telling you you’re not good enough. Newsflash: That voice is wrong. You have every right to be here, try this, stumble, and succeed. It gets quieter the more you just… do the thing.

Fast Forward to Now: A Lesson in Humble Beginnings

My first byline didn’t launch me into literary stardom—I did not, in fact, become an overnight Joan Didion. But it was the start of something that felt uniquely mine. That little piece about Coach Hernandez? It sparked a love for storytelling that’s carried me from potato fields in Idaho to Chicago skyscrapers and back again.

These days, I write about connection—how we find it, nurture it, and sometimes laugh through the failures along the way. I’d like to think my first byline is still a part of what I do now: asking questions, finding meaning in the unexpected, and occasionally spiraling into existential dread before muddling my way back toward clarity.

So, whether it’s your first love, your first draft, or your first published piece, take a moment to appreciate that messy, magical first step. It’s proof that you’re showing up—and sometimes, showing up is the hardest part. Ready your red pen or your dating profile (or literal football cleats, if that’s your thing), and take the leap.

Because somewhere out there, your name can be in lights—or in 12-point font, middle of the page, right below an ad for used cars—and trust me, it’ll still feel pretty fantastic.