It all starts with a kind of earthquake in your chest. That second-your-phone-buzzes-and-you-think-it’s-them kind of anticipation. Except, in my case, it wasn’t a fledgling crush or a flighty flirtation—it was an email from a travel magazine editor. And it started with the words: “We’d like to publish your essay.”

I reread that email so many times I started to worry Gmail would crash. My first byline. My little story about a snowy dawn at Fallen Leaf Lake was actually going out into the world—inked into the pages of a magazine people might read on a plane or in a doctor’s office while biting their nails about their cholesterol. Somehow, it felt bigger than me.

But let me back up. Like any meaningful first experience (first kiss, first heartbreak, first time trying to parallel park in San Francisco), there was a story behind it. And like all good stories, it came with lessons I didn’t realize I was learning at the time.

The Spark: Where It All Started

My first published piece was born in a cabin during a record snowfall over Lake Tahoe—one of those storms that wraps the trees like frosted cupcakes and makes you wonder if the world is quietly auditioning to be a snow globe. I had just moved back home after college and was deep in the post-grad fog of “What am I even doing with my life?” My degree in Environmental Science had equipped me to read soil samples and forecast streamflow levels, but it didn’t prepare me to figure out what I wanted to say, let alone who’d want to listen.

So, I did what I always do when I don’t have the answers: I went outside. I packed up my notebook, bundled into three layers of flannel, and trekked to Fallen Leaf Lake. The fresh air didn’t solve everything, but it gave me enough clarity to scribble out something honest. It wasn’t perfect, but it was mine—part reflection, part love letter to the stubborn resilience of winter mornings.

And then, on an impulsive whim (fueled by coffee and a nagging voice in my head that said, “What’s the worst that could happen?”), I submitted it to a small adventure magazine known for celebrating overlooked corners of the natural world. It felt like tossing a paper airplane into the abyss.

The Waiting Game: Love, Rejection, and the Chaos In Between

What they don’t tell you about submitting your writing—or putting your heart on the line in any way, really—is what to do while you wait. Because the waiting? Oh, it’s exquisite torture. It’s like leaving someone a perfectly vulnerable voicemail and spending the next week dissecting not just every word you said but also why you used that weird voice you get when you’re nervous.

I convinced myself they’d say no. I told myself I’d been foolish to even try. And maybe that’s the first lesson here: opening yourself up to rejection is terrifying and uncomfortable, but it’s also the only way to move forward—whether you’re trying to get published or figuring out if that cute person at the coffee shop is into you. (Spoiler: If they ask for oat milk, they’re probably cool and worth a shot.)

But the email eventually came, and it wasn’t a rejection. It was a yes.

Growth Pains: Doubt Is the Plus-One No One Requests

Here’s the thing no one tells you about your first byline: It feels amazing for about five minutes—until doubt crashes the party and starts drinking all the beer. What if it wasn’t actually good? What if people hated it? Am I even qualified to be doing this?

These kinds of self-doubts, I’ve learned, are persistent little buggers. They’ll show up uninvited when you’re expressing yourself, or being vulnerable, or making plans to move in with someone for the first time. But here’s the deal: you don’t have to banish doubt to keep going. You just have to focus on your purpose. For me, that purpose was simple. I wanted someone, somewhere, to read that essay and feel the kind of peace I felt on that chilly lakeshore—like they’d stumbled upon something hidden and good.

And funny enough, it’s a lot like relationships. You’re never going to be perfect in your first draft—or even your fiftieth. But isn’t it worth showing up, anyway?

Lessons Learned: The Takeaways That Stuck

Looking back, publishing my first essay taught me a handful of things—not just about writing, but about life and the many ways we chase connection. Here’s what I’d tell my younger self (and anyone else on the verge of putting themselves out there):

  • Start Before You’re Ready: Whether it’s submitting an essay, asking someone out, or trying aerial yoga for the first time (yes, you will end up tangled in the silk like a piñata, but it’s worth it), don’t let perfect be the enemy of possible.

  • Find Your Why: Getting published isn’t about the bragging rights—though my mom did enthusiastically flip to my page in the magazine and show it to approximately everyone in line at the grocery store. It’s about saying something real. Whether you’re tackling your first byline or first serious relationship, ask yourself: What do I want to offer? Who do I hope this resonates with?

  • Celebrate the Little Wins: I’ve learned to mark even the smallest milestones—like cracking a tricky paragraph or crafting the perfect reply to a tricky text. Life’s too short to wait for grand finales; soak up the standing ovations wherever you find them.

The Aftermath: That Beautiful Chain Reaction

The post-publication thrill didn’t stop at seeing my name in print. The essay sparked conversations—with old friends, with strangers, with the magazine staff who gave me my first shot. It also opened doors. The chain reaction set the stage for the freelance career I have today, blending woods-walking and wordsmithing in ways I didn’t dare hope for before.

And, in a funny way, that first byline taught me more about relationships than I expected. Because creating something and sharing it with the world—not knowing how it’ll land or what people will make of it—is not so different from love. Both rely on a strange kind of faith, a willingness to stumble (sometimes hilariously, sometimes painfully) as you figure things out.

Final Thoughts: Go Ahead, Take the Leap

Whether your “first byline” is literal—like mine—or metaphorical, it’s always worth the leap. Sure, it might be awkward at times (ask me how many typos I discovered after the piece was published). And sure, you might wrestle with doubt or rejection or the simple fact that hitting “send” is terrifying. But so what? We’re all works in progress, right?

So send the essay. Write the love letter. Ask for a second date. Because that simple “yes”—whether it’s from an editor, an intriguing stranger, or, heck, from yourself—might just be the start of something you don’t even know you’re ready for.

Trust me. It’s worth it.