There’s something special about firsts. Your first crush, your first kiss, your first “What are we?” conversation that spirals into awkward territory. Messy as they are, these moments stick because they’re proof we’re alive—fumbling, learning, and growing. My first byline was no different. It was clumsy, thrilling, and, to be honest, packed with rookie mistakes, but it was also the moment everything changed for me.
Let me take you back.
The Great Freak-Out Before the Leap
I was fresh out of undergrad, still hauling boxes into my first solo apartment in Little Havana, when the opportunity landed on my lap like an overeager puppy. A community newsletter—yes, the kind that still printed on actual paper—put out a call for stories capturing local culture. Naturally, my mom was the one who spotted it.
“Mijo, you’re always scribbling away on your laptop. Write something!” she said, sliding the ad across our sticky plastic dining table. My abuela chimed in, reminding me that José Martí started young too. (In my family, nothing is sacred unless it can be connected to Martí.) I snickered at the comparison, but deep down, the pressure hit.
Fast forward to me hunched over my laptop at midnight, trying to craft my first piece. If writing could sweat, those pages would’ve been drenched. I wanted to write about something real, something that felt true to me and my community, but where do you even start when you're 22 and still figuring yourself out?
I decided to write about dominoes. Not the pizza place—actual dominoes: the sound of clacking tiles reverberating from parks and porches around Miami, the way old Cubans smack down their tiles as if the force will summon better luck. I think my opening sentence was something like, “In Little Havana, dominoes aren’t just a game—they’re therapy.” (Spoiler alert: clichés ahead!)
When Impostor Syndrome Hits Harder Than Espresso
The next few days were a blur. I edited and re-edited obsessively, fearing I was sounding either too academic or, worse, too corny. (“Do people even care about domino stories, Martin?!” was a common refrain I hissed to no one in particular.) But eventually, I hit “send” on the pitch. If dating has taught me anything, it’s that the scariest part is always putting yourself out there—sending the text first, asking them out, revealing your weird little quirks. In this case, my quirky obsession with dominoes.
When I didn’t hear back for two weeks, I convinced myself it wasn’t meant to be. They hated it. I wasn’t a writer; I was just a guy playing writer. But then the email came: “We’d love to publish your story. It’s beautiful. Check your inbox for edits soon.”
Reader, I almost dropped my cafecito.
The Awkward First Date (With My Voice)
The night before my byline went live, I was a jumble of emotions. Would readers connect with it? Would someone call me out for getting a detail wrong or sounding too green? I hadn’t learned yet that writing is a relationship—the one you have with yourself and the one you’re building with your audience. That first crack at finding my authentic voice was like a first date: full of cringe, missteps, and moments of doubt.
For instance, I’d peppered the piece with phrases like “the intoxicating aroma of café cubano,” which, looking back, felt a little more travel brochure than raw storytelling. But here’s the thing: No one called me out for my starter-kit mistakes. The readers were kind. A local abuela wrote in and said the story reminded her of her late husband, who ruled the domino tables every Sunday at Máximo Gómez Park. It hit me then: sure, my writing wasn’t perfect, but it meant something to someone. That was enough to make me keep going.
What Writing Taught Me About Risk—and Love
You know how people always say relationships take work? Like, if you’re not scaring yourself a little along the way, you’re coasting? That’s what writing this first piece felt like: terrifying but necessary. It taught me lessons that apply equally to telling stories and putting your heart on the line.
1. Vulnerability Sells (But Not in a Cheesy Way):
Whether you’re baring your soul in print or telling someone you love them for the first time, honesty is magnetic. Sure, my writing included a few crutches (again, looking at you, “intoxicating aroma”), but it came from a place of truth. Readers can smell insincerity faster than a Cuban mom can sniff out a bad date.
2. Rejection Isn’t the End of the Story:
The waiting period after I sent my pitch felt brutal, kind of like texting your crush and watching those typing dots disappear. But patience taught me that rejection—real or imagined—isn’t a sign that you’re unworthy. It just means you’re getting closer to the right “yes.”
3. Celebrate the Little Wins:
When my byline finally printed, I printed two copies—one for me and one for my grandparents. It wasn’t groundbreaking journalism, but it didn’t have to be. The piece represented a step, a declaration that I was now A Writer. Similarly, not every dating milestone has to be earth-shattering. The stolen glances, the easy laughter—they matter too.
Why Your “First” Will Always Be Special
A lot has happened since that first domino story. I’ve written articles with bolder bylines, stories that dug deeper or carried more weight. But the magic of walking into a bodega and seeing that first article on the counter, next to bottles of Materva and dusty boxes of ChocoRica? I’ll never forget it. It was life-affirming in a way few things are. (Well, aside from discovering that the pizzería down the street sells $1 empanadas. But you get my point.)
The same could be said of firsts in love. They’ll be imperfect, maybe even embarrassing. You’ll worry about saying the wrong thing, then realize later that your humanity was the best thing you could’ve shared. Whether it’s a byline, a crush, or an ungainly first attempt at salsa dancing (which, by the way, don’t let your abuela watch unless you have thick skin), firsts push us out of our comfort zones—and into the truth of who we are.
So, if you’re sitting on your own version of a “first”—whether it’s pitching a piece, starting a love story, or learning to trust someone—just take the leap. If my excruciatingly earnest domino article could make its way into the world, so can you. And hey, maybe you’ll have a story worth telling too.
