I remember the exact moment it hit me: the sheer, unfiltered joy of seeing my name in print. Not scribbled on a coffee-stained journal lost somewhere under my car seat, not scrawled on sticky notes plastered across my desk, but printed. Published. Out there in the world. It felt like standing on a mountaintop, chest swelling with pride… then realizing you forgot to pack a snack. A mix of triumph and disorienting newness. That was the day my first byline saw the light of day.

Of course, the subject of my first piece wasn’t anything radical or boundary-pushing—it was an essay about hiking. More specifically, a love letter to Colorado’s front range, where my family and I had ventured on countless Saturday mornings during my childhood. But to me, the byline might as well have been a Pulitzer.

What struck me then—and still holds true now—is how much that moment taught me about not just writing, but connection. Writing for an audience felt a bit like dating for the first time: nerve-wracking yet electrifying. Putting yourself out there, knowing judgment and communication mishaps await, but hoping someone—anyone—gets it. So here’s the story of my awkward debut as a published writer, filled with lessons that, funny enough, could just as easily apply to relationships.

The Submission: Like Sending That Risky “You Up?” Text

The road to publication started during my post-college stint at a conservation nonprofit. I’d been journaling for months about the canyons, rivers, and open skies of Colorado, scratching what I now recognize as an itch for storytelling. Encouraged by the local praise my scribbles had garnered from friends (shoutout to Erica, who called one essay “pretty okay”), I submitted a piece to a regional outdoor magazine.

It wasn’t an act of courage so much as one of procrastination. Our office had just moved to paperless filing, and I found myself staring at two dozen digitized forms labeled “URGENT” in my inbox. Avoiding actual work felt noble that day. So, I hit “send” on my essay, tacked on a generic pitch (“Hi, hope you like my words!”), and immediately drowned my nerves in a generous pour of kombucha.

Months crept by with radio silence. I had all but forgotten about the submission when—ding—a cheerful email landed in my inbox. My essay was accepted. And I’d even get paid! A whopping $50, which felt like winning the lottery, even if it barely covered one grocery trip to Whole Foods.

This phase of the process mirrored that moment in a new relationship where you finally send the vulnerable text—confessing feelings, sending a goofy meme, or asking where they see things going—and brace for impact. The wait is agonizing. The relief when it works out? Worth every second.

Seeing It in Print: A Mixture of Pride and Panic

On the morning the magazine hit shelves, I bolted down to the local co-op, grabbed a copy, and flipped through the pages with shaky hands. There it was—my words in Times New Roman glory, accompanied by one of my grainy, overly hopeful iPhone photos of the Flatirons at sunset.

For a moment, I basked in the glow. But that moment? Oh, it was fleeting. Right on its heels came the anxiety spiral. What if nobody liked it? What if everyone hated it? Worse, what if nobody read it at all?

That fear is something anyone who’s gone on a first date can probably relate to. The prepared outfit, the rehearsed anecdotes, the optimism curled up against cold sweat in a booth by the bar—it all leads to the inevitable post-date analysis. Was there spinach in my teeth? Did I talk too much about my cat? Did they secretly ghost me the second I walked away?

Like dating, publishing for the first time forced me to release control. The article was out there now, for people to love, critique, or ignore. All I could do was wait.

The Feedback: Where It Gets Real

The feedback trickled in slowly, like a first round of swipes on a dating app. A few friends said kind things, though it was hard to parse who actually read the piece versus who skimmed enough to applaud me generically. (It’s like when your date gushes over “your vibe” but can’t remember your job title.)

But then came the unexpected: a handwritten letter from a retired park ranger, forwarded to me by the magazine’s editor. It was three paragraphs long, full of praise for my portrayal of the Rockies’ untamed beauty. He thanked me for capturing something he thought many people overlooked.

This, I realized, was the magic of connecting through words—or in the case of relationships, shared moments. When someone appreciates not just you, but the little details that make you tick, it’s soul-affirming. It bolstered my confidence in storytelling, pushing me to become even more vulnerable with my work.

Of course, not all the feedback was glowing. My cousin joked that it sounded “kinda hippie,” which, fair enough. And my dad kept telling anyone who’d listen that it was “a nice thing my Miles did,” in a way that made me feel like a kid winning a participation trophy. Perspective, I guess.

Lessons Learned: Writing (and Dating) Take Vulnerability

Looking back now, being published for the first time doesn’t feel like the peak of the mountain—it was more of a trailhead. It taught me that writing for others wasn’t just about technique or fancy metaphors but a willingness to share your perspective honestly and risk rejection. Relating to dating? Oh, absolutely.

Here’s what I took away that still applies to both:

  • Be Brave Enough to Show Up. Whether it’s your story or yourself, putting it out there is always the first step. You might end up pleasantly surprised—or at least learn something along the way.
  • Don’t Let Perfection Paralyze You. My first essay was not the best thing I’d ever write. It wasn’t even close. And that’s okay. Sharing something imperfect doesn’t make it unworthy of attention or connection.
  • Celebrate the Milestones. Whether it’s a first byline or a great first date, take a moment to pat yourself on the back. And yes, even a $50 check is worth celebrating.
  • Understand That You Won’t Connect With Everyone. Not everyone will resonate with your story—or your vibe—and that’s perfectly fine. It doesn’t diminish the value of what you put out there.

Conclusion: Your Moment Will Always Be Worth It

The first time you put yourself into the world, there’s nothing quite like it. Whether you’re submitting a piece of writing, reaching out for love, or chasing after that next chapter in your life’s story, the thrill is always wrapped up in uncertainty.

But here’s the thing: reflection tends to turn any feeling of awkwardness into endearing nostalgia. Sure, I wince now rereading the slightly overwrought descriptions in that first essay (did I really compare clouds to “ethereal whispers”?), but it was authentic to who I was at the time. And isn’t that all we can ever offer—our most genuine selves, right here, right now?

So, wherever you are in your journey, take heart in this: Your first time at anything only comes once. Embrace the glorious mess of it. There’s no rehearsal for being seen, but there’s also no greater freedom than realizing the world just might see you anyway.

Maybe even in print.