I still remember the borderline ridiculous euphoria of seeing my first byline, my name in print. In retrospect, it felt as though someone had handed me life’s equivalent of an Olympic gold medal, except instead of athletic prowess, I had "conquered" the monumental task of stringing words together. To anyone outside my overactive imagination, it was probably closer to a participation trophy. But at the time? Oh, it was triumphant.

The piece itself wasn’t exactly a literary barnburner—it was a feature in my college magazine about sustainable surfboards. Glamorous? Not really. Rewarding? Surprisingly, yes. And much like the first blush of a relationship, that exhilaration of crossing a threshold lingered long enough to leave a mark.

Fast-forward to today, and I’ve learned a lot about writing—and a little about life. I wanted to share the journey: the good, the awkward, and the transformative. Because let’s be honest, every first—whether it’s a byline, a date, or admitting you still know all the words to Rumours by Fleetwood Mac—has something to teach us.

The "Foreplay" of a First Byline: Excitement Meets Paralyzing Doubt

The idea for the article arrived one humid afternoon during my undergrad years at UC Santa Barbara. I was sitting on a sun-bleached bench overlooking the ocean, arguably procrastinating, when a friend approached and said, “You should write about those eco-friendly surfboards they use down at Rincon.” My initial reaction was to laugh. Like most big moments in our lives, it began with mild skepticism.

“Me?” I asked. “You think anyone cares about people who make surfboards out of algae or… whatever it is?” (Spoiler alert: it wasn’t algae. But I digress.)

My friend shrugged in that quintessential college way that says, "Why not?" Sometimes, that’s all you need. Someone to offer the lightest push, even if it feels meaningless in the moment. Much like deciding to swipe right on someone you’re unsure about (but hey, they quoted The Office, so there’s potential), saying yes can lead to bigger things.

Writing that article felt like the first stages of flirting: cautiously exciting, a little clumsy, and full of overthinking. I obsessed over phrases like “bio-resin innovation” and wondered if I could sneak in a reference to The Beach Boys before coming back to reality. Eventually, I finished. It wasn’t perfect, but I’d done it—and sent it off with equal parts hope and terror.

Publication Day: Somewhere Between Pride and Impostor Syndrome

There it was: my name, right under the headline. My first byline. “Can Surfboards Save the Planet?” I remember riding my bike to the campus coffeehouse to grab a copy of the magazine like it was opening night on Broadway. Never mind that half the student body probably used the magazine as a makeshift paper towel—it felt significant.

Seeing your name in print is a deeply surreal moment. It’s like the first time someone says, "I love you," and you realize they’re talking about you. You! The person who accidentally says "you too" when the barista tells you to enjoy your coffee. Impostor syndrome hit hard. “What gives me the right to comment on surfboards and sustainability?” I wondered. (Years later, I’d ask myself the same question about advice on dating, relationships, and every topic in between. Impostor syndrome loves repeat performances.)

But that’s the thing about putting yourself out there—it’s vulnerable. Whether it’s declaring feelings, submitting creative work, or trying a new hobby that leaves you hilariously bad at something (paddleboarding, anyone?), the act of stepping up counts. Even if the first step feels like it might break you.

Lessons Learned: Vulnerability, Resilience, and Finding Your Voice

In hindsight, that byline set the tone for how I approach much of life: looking for connections in unexpected places. Who would’ve thought surfboards could tell a bigger story about responsibility, craftsmanship, and showing care for something bigger than ourselves? Spoiler alert: the same can be said about relationships.

Here are three lessons my first byline taught me that might strike a chord, in writing or otherwise:

  • Start, even when it’s messy. Your first anything—love letter, career pivot, attempt at roasting the perfect coffee bean—is probably not going to blow anyone’s mind. But you’ll never know until you start. Write the messy draft. Say the vulnerable thing. Let the process work its magic.

  • Don’t underestimate the small wins. It’s easy to trivialize milestones when you compare them to someone else’s great love story—or great career, for that matter. But your journey is unique, and what’s “small” might actually be the foundational step for something bigger.

  • Celebrate, no matter what. Imagine your life is soundtracked by the moment someone clicks play on Fleetwood Mac’s “Don’t Stop.” It’s the energy you need to self-champion. Buy the celebratory drink, even if nobody else knows why that day feels special. (In my case, it was a chai latte. Pure chaos.)

From Writing to Relationships: The Power of Showing Up

It struck me, somewhere in the years after my first byline, that writing is a lot like love. Both are deeply humbling pursuits. You have to be patient with yourself. You stumble. You overthink. You’re forced to confront truths you usually sweep under the rug. And most importantly, you lose the fear of putting yourself out there—even if the outcome is uncertain.

I won’t lie to you: not every byline after my first felt like that world-shifting moment at the coffeehouse. Just like not every coffee date blossoms into a lifelong relationship. That’s okay. It’s not supposed to. Each iteration teaches you something new about yourself—what you value, what you’re attracted to, and what you’re willing to work for.

And isn’t that kind of the point? Building a life (or a column) you’re proud of doesn’t happen all at once. It’s pieced together over time like your favorite stained-glass memory: flawed, beautiful, and perfectly yours.

So, Here’s to Your “Firsts”

Whether it’s landing your first byline, taking a brave leap in your love life, or trying to explain bio-resins before fully understanding them, remember this: Every great story starts somewhere.

So embrace the clumsy drafts. Take the leap. Relish the firsts—even when they feel small, or mildly absurd. Celebrate the fact that showing up is the hardest part, and you’ve already mastered it.

Checked the box? Cool. Now, what’s next?