They say you never forget your first. First crush, first kiss, first heartbreak—and, if you’re a writer, your first byline. Mine wasn’t a dreamy, cinematic moment where a glossy magazine editor plucked me out of obscurity and handed me my big break. No, it was more like an awkward first date: clumsy, exhilarating, and, in retrospect, a little weird.

What I wrote about? Restroom activism. Specifically, the guerrilla-style art installations I’d started seeing in Austin’s co-op bathrooms, where anonymous crusaders scribbled feminist manifestos and stuck up poignant doodles in an effort to reclaim public spaces.

It wasn’t your typical “fresh out of college” piece, but then again, I’ve never been much for the conventional route. Here's how it all unfolded—and how it’s shaped everything I write today.

The Pitch: A Mix of Nerves and Naïveté

When I got the email—yes, an actual email, mind you, in an era when Instagram DMs rule communications—I nearly spat out my cold brew. The editor of a small online zine dedicated to arts and activism asked if I wanted to write about youth-led artistic movements in Austin. I’d casually mentioned my observations about restroom murals during a networking event, and somehow, word got back to her.

I think I blacked out half the conversation because I can barely remember what I pitched. Something about the transformative nature of bathroom graffiti? I went on a tangent about how the restroom—a space often coded as private and yet so public—was the perfect metaphor for the way young feminists were trying to create personal but shared forms of resistance. Not exactly Cosmopolitan material, but quirky enough to make the editor say, “Okay, Harper. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Translation: I had NO idea what I was doing.

Writing It Out: Equal Parts Panic and Caffeine

I wrote the draft in one sitting, fueled by an alarming amount of coffee and sheer adrenaline. My desk faced a blank wall in my 400-square-foot apartment. I wanted to be that girl who wrote in a sunny café, penning observations between latte sips, but I couldn’t risk running into someone I vaguely knew from college and having to explain, “Oh, I’m just working on this piece about bathroom art. You know, the intersection of bathrooms and feminism! Totally relatable.”

I overthought every sentence, spiraling into mini identity crises after each paragraph. Was this too academic? Too casual? Should I quote bell hooks? Should I not quote bell hooks? At some point, I called my best friend and declared, dramatically, “If this fails, I’ll NEVER write again.” She replied, “You literally say this every week. Write the damn thing, Sinclair.”

Submission: Hitting Send with the Grace of a Flailing Baby Goat

Finally, my hazy, overworked brain produced an article I could call semi-passable. I hit send at 3 a.m. and then immediately regretted everything—classic overthinker behavior. Why obsess over wording choices like “existential graffiti” at ungodly hours of the night when the editor would probably skim it between meetings?

Pro tip: Do not, I repeat, do not check your email every 15 minutes after submitting a piece. You will end up in an existential wormhole of imposter syndrome. When her “Looks great—minor tweaks!” response came through (fewer than 24 hours later), I danced around my apartment like I’d just signed a book deal, muttering, “Minor tweaks! She said minor!”

Publication Day: A Love-Hate Relationship

The day my article dropped, I sent the link to my parents. My mom is a grade-A encourager, the kind who will hang even your finger paintings in a gold frame, but my dad read the essay like a lawyer preparing for cross-examination.

“So...” he said as he lowered his reading glasses. “You’ve written a manifesto on bathroom walls.”

“Technically,” I replied, “I’ve written about manifestos on bathroom walls. Big difference.”

My friends, bless them, flooded my social media posts with heart emojis and spontaneous “YES QUEEN!” comments, even though a handful admitted, “I didn’t totally get it, but it sounded smart!” I’ll take that as a win.

Lessons Learned: Becoming Comfortable with the (Messy) Process

Here’s what my first byline taught me: putting yourself out there will always be messy. It’s vulnerable, nerve-wracking, and sometimes leaves you doubting whether it was worth the effort. Kind of like asking someone out or finally texting “What are we?” during that twilight state of situationship limbo.

But here’s another thing I’ve learned along the way: even if it’s messy, it’s yours. Just like those budding relationships where you’re trying to make sense of shared Spotify playlists and overanalyzing texts, your journey is your own to navigate—and that’s the magic of it.

In the years since my debut restroom-art essay (still can’t believe I started there, honestly), I’ve learned to welcome the awkwardness of chasing any passion, be it love, storytelling, or fighting for the causes you care about. It’s never perfect at first, and that’s okay.

Why Your First (Anything) Matters

Here’s the thing about firsts: they’re not really about “nailing it.” They’re about the nerve it takes to try. Whether it’s the first article you write, the first time you make the move on someone you’ve been crushing on, or the first road trip you take solo, the key is to embrace the awkward.

So, the next time you’re hesitating to put yourself out there—whether in relationships, career, or anywhere else—ask yourself: what’s the worst that could happen? Because chances are, you’ll not only survive but thrive on the other end.

Much like bathroom graffiti, we all start with scribbles before we create something meaningful. And even if it never goes viral (or your dad side-eyes your bathroom-writing analysis), at least you’ve taken the first step. After all, isn’t that what life—and love—is all about?