The Day I Fell in Love with My Voice
As a ten-year-old navigating the cobblestone streets of Paris, fresh off the plane from Alexandria and harboring an accent thicker than molokhia, I never imagined that words—my words—would one day find an audience. Back then, I lived in two worlds: one defined by French conjugations and Edith Piaf’s haunting vibrato, and the other by Egyptian proverbs and my mother’s kitchen, always redolent with the smell of cumin and coriander. I became fluent in straddling lines: between cultures, languages, and eventually, continents.
But loving my voice? Publicly sharing words I could hardly admit were mine? That felt as impossible as a meet-cute in Paris without a baguette involved.
Yet somehow, years later, I was sitting in a café in London with a steaming chai latte, refreshing a browser tab to confirm it had happened. My first byline had just gone live.
A Beginning That Almost Didn’t Happen
The piece was a short essay titled “The Things We Take When We Leave.” It chronicled the secret language of a carry-on suitcase—how mine was always stuffed to the brim with things that weren't strictly “necessary” but were essential nonetheless. A tattered volume of Naguib Mahfouz for grounding, a pashmina that smelled faintly of summers in Alexandria, photographs of family weddings where I stood awkwardly amidst a sea of cousins.
I’d written it over months, adding fragments like a mosaic. It wasn’t meant to be "my first published piece," but more like a whispered confession kept under digital lock and key in my laptop’s “Essays That No One Will Read” folder. Enter an old friend—let’s call him my meddlesome fairy god-editor—who convinced me to pitch it.
But here’s the part no one tells you about your first time hitting 'submit': it’s terrifying. Forget meeting-the-parents levels of dread. Forget the rebound date who insists on ordering for you ("You'll love the octopus"). Clicking "send" on an email addressed to an actual editor, subject line "Submission for Consideration," has all the vulnerability of sending a risky text after two glasses of rosé: “Hey … um, any chance you’re interested in this?”
The Published Piece Is Never the Whole Story
Here’s the thing nobody warns you about when your voice goes live: the piece may be public, but the messy backstory—that frantic tug-of-war between self-doubt and hope—still lives within you.
I remember rereading the editor’s acceptance email so many times my brain started editing the email itself. Her compliments had all the flow of Arabic poetry to me: “I loved this. Such a fresh, evocative perspective. Can we publish it next Tuesday?”
Of course, I had responded the only way one can in such moments: by hurling my phone across the room and booking a celebratory solo dinner reservation, equal parts panicked and exhilarated. (Pro tip: Solo dinners are the most underrated form of self-romance. If my first byline taught me anything, it’s to never settle for bad wine or bad company, even if that company is you.)
But here's the truth—the finished piece wasn’t nearly as polished as it looked online. I see now the way I tiptoed around vulnerability like a tightrope walker afraid of falling into “too much.” I was honest, but cautiously so, holding something back.
Turns out, publishing isn’t an arrival—it’s an introduction. A first date with your own voice.
Lessons My First Byline Taught Me
If creativity were a relationship, my first byline taught me what I needed most in that partnership: risk, imperfection, and persistence. Here’s how that translates into real life, whether you’re navigating relationships or taking a leap into something raw and uncertain:
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The Right Timing Is an Illusion:
There’s no “perfect” moment to submit a piece of writing—or to send that vulnerable text, or to say, “Are we still in the same chapter, or have we moved on to different books?” Waiting for perfection is just fear wearing a very convincing shade of lipstick. -
Vulnerability Is a Superpower:
Sharing your voice, your fears, your joy—it’s not a weakness. It’s connection. And yes, connections require risk. But isn’t that what makes them worthwhile? -
What You Hide Is Often What People Need to Hear:
The section of my essay I almost deleted? About the family heirlooms I’d lugged from Alexandria, despite their impractical bulk. That resonated the most with readers. It made me wonder: isn’t that true of all relationships? The quirks we try to conceal are often the ones that become someone else’s favorite chapter. -
Celebrate the Milestones, No Matter How Small:
I didn’t win a Pulitzer that day—or the next, still waiting. But I ordered dessert (crème brûlée, naturally) and got lost in the crackle of its caramelized surface. Because milestones, like relationships, deserve more celebration than we usually give them.
A Voice Is Built Over Time
They say we don’t truly fall in love at first sight; we fall in love slowly, over time, with someone’s quirks, softness, and scars. Well, that’s how I feel about writing. My byline wasn’t love at first sight—it was a spark, yes. But the real romance began later, brick by brick, with every night spent writing essays, stories, and scraps that never made it to publication.
It’s funny. Falling in love with your voice feels a lot like falling in love with someone else: a push-pull of doubt and devotion, filled with fleeting moments of joy and gut-wrenching vulnerability.
My first byline taught me there’s magic in being visible, imperfect as it is. And isn’t that the lesson we’re all trying to learn—whether we’re staring at the blank page or at someone across the room?
So here’s what I’ll leave you with: your voice matters, even when it trembles. Especially when it trembles. Whether it’s your first published essay, or the act of stepping into a relationship with courage and a soft heart—show up. Because more often than not, your imperfect voice is the one people are waiting to hear.
