It’s funny how life has a way of making big dreams feel… oddly mundane at the moment they come true. My first byline didn’t feel like the glittering climax of a movie montage. Instead, it showed up quietly—like a first date that doesn’t exactly knock you over but leaves you smiling after they text back.

The Spark Before the Flame

Let's rewind. It was the early days of my writing career, and I was fresh out of university, armed with a passion for words and a deep love for stories. My days were spent translating centuries-old heartbreaks from Chinese poetry into English—the kind of job that whispers "romantic" but paid more like "starving artist."

As you can imagine, romance in my life was confined to paper. But oh, what paper it was! Every line I translated seemed to mirror my own dream: chasing something beautiful, ineffable, and impossibly far away. Publishing my own words someday wasn’t just a goal; it felt inevitable. Like those rom-com montages where the heroine wanders the city in a haze of hopeful yearning… except the city was Beijing, and I wasn’t Audrey Hepburn. I was eating street food at my desk at 2 a.m. while cursing archaic metaphors.

Somewhere deep down, I knew I had stories to tell. I didn’t know my "first" was around the corner.

Love at First (Publication) Sight

The email came mid-afternoon on a Thursday—not that I remember the exact details or anything. A small literary magazine had just accepted one of my essays, a piece about growing up as a child of academics, with a focus on how literature felt less like an escape and more like an inheritance. It wasn't groundbreaking; it wasn’t something revolutionary. But it was mine. My words. My story.

In the spirit of melodrama, you’d think I burst into a tearful heap, musical crescendo and all. In reality, the milestone looked something closer to this: glancing at my inbox, re-reading the email three times to confirm I wasn’t hallucinating, and yelling “Oh my god!” loud enough that my neighbor’s grey parrot mimicked me for a week.

That night, I splurged on takeout dumplings and texted all my friends. Their responses ranged from “Proud of you!!!” to “Wait, you’re published now? Does this mean you’re NOT freeloading anymore?” (Spoiler: I was still freeloading.)

Butterflies, Panic, and the Waiting Game

Here’s the thing they don’t tell you about firsts—whether it’s your first byline, first kiss, or first time introducing a partner to your parents: the wait for the day to arrive is excruciating. The magazine wasn’t online then; it was print-only. I had to wait six weeks—six!—for the issue to come out. In the meantime, my imagination spun into overdrive.

What if it didn’t look the way I’d imagined? What if a typo ruined the whole piece? Worse: What if no one read it at all? I distracted myself by obsessing over unrelated things (Does my writing voice sound too pretentious? Should I have started dating again? Will I ever own my own apartment? Ah, the drama of a writer’s spiraling thoughts).

When the magazine finally arrived, I tore it open like a kid opening red envelopes during Lunar New Year. There it was: my name, printed in neat font at the top of a glossy page. Suddenly, things clicked. The years of reading Li Bai and Du Fu under the lamp, of growing up in a household where books towered higher than most humans, of struggling to reconcile the romanticism of writing with the reality of doing it—these moments carried me here, to this very page.

Lessons from the (Literary) Battlefield

You may not be a writer—or even care particularly about literary magazines—but we all have "firsts" in our lives that we build up, doubt, celebrate, and learn from. Here’s what my first publication taught me, and maybe these lessons translate to something you’re working toward too. Or at the very least, to navigating the first step in a relationship (because let’s face it: there are always parallels).

  • Timing rarely feels perfect—but do it anyway. I doubted if my essay was ready before I submitted it. Truthfully, it wasn’t. But it was enough for that moment. Same goes for confessing your feelings, applying to a job, or sending that risky text to someone who only gave your last comment a “haha” reaction. Try. Adjust as you go.

  • No one sees the gaps in your confidence. On the outside? I was casually “checking email” when I got accepted. Internally? Trainwreck of overthinking, like second-guessing whether your shirt looks too "try-hard" on a first date. Here’s the secret: no one knows these details but you—so own the moment.

  • Celebrate hard. No, harder. I thought dumplings and texting my friends were celebration enough for my first byline. But looking back, I wish I’d gone bigger—any first deserves confetti, even if that confetti is just watching your favorite rom-com while wearing pajamas that suggest zero dignity. The same applies to your first real connection with a partner. Relish the sweetness.

From First to Familiar

Time dulls the shine of "firsts," doesn’t it? I’ve published plenty since then (and yes, still dream of publishing more). But that one moment—that breathless rush of hearing, “Yes, your work matters”—laid the foundation. Like relationships, creative success isn’t a one-and-done thing; it’s sustained by nurturing what comes after. The joy of a spark leads into the comfort of something deeper.

Your “first” could be anything—your first time navigating vulnerability, surviving heartbreak, or even admitting that you deserve happiness. Wherever you are on that path, let me remind you: nothing compares to taking the leap. Honor the milestone without holding yourself hostage to it. You’ve got a thousand beginnings ahead, but this one always has its worth.

Whether it’s writing, dating, or folding fitted sheets (which might be harder than both), there’s no perfect formula for getting it right the first time. Just start. I promise the outcome—awkward or triumphant—will lead you somewhere worth going.