I still remember the smell of the envelope when I opened it. Ink and paper, sure, but also a hint of something else—possibility, maybe? Or maybe I was just delirious from the cold Wyoming air that had leaked into the mailbox. Either way, that crisp January afternoon was the first time I held something heavy with my name on it: a thin, glossy magazine featuring my first-ever byline.

It was a piece about bison migration, nestled somewhere between an ad for elk hunting gear and an editorial about fly fishing techniques. Riveting stuff, right? But to me, it may as well have been on the front page of The New York Times. That byline wasn’t just an acknowledgment of my writing—it was proof that the stories in my head could matter to someone besides my mom or my college professor.

But how did I get there? Well, pull up a chair (preferably a creaky wooden one by a fireplace), and I’ll tell you.

From Saddle to Scribbles: The First Steps

You’d think the boy who spent his summers leading tourists on horseback through sagebrush meadows would’ve had a better sense of direction. But in my early twenties, I was as aimless as a tumbleweed in a windstorm. Wildlife biology had been my compass for years, but while I loved, say, counting moose tracks in the snow, something was missing.

That “something” was storytelling. I’d always been the type to jot things down—a funny thing a guest said on a trail ride, sketches of an osprey mid-dive, random snapshots of thoughts I couldn’t shake. Most of it stayed buried in my journals (goners to water damage or suspiciously aggressive ranch mice), but one day, during my stint as a park ranger, I turned one of those musings into a story.

It wasn’t much, really—just a few paragraphs about the way snow gathers in the crooks of lodgepole pines. But it felt good, like the satisfying click of a buckle on a saddle. So I kept writing.

Submissions, Rejections, and the Thrill of "Maybe"

Submitting that first piece to a publication was a lot like asking someone out for the first time. First, there was the overthinking: Should I send it now or wait another day to edit again? Should I start with "Hello, esteemed editor," or drop a pretentious phrase like "Enclosed please find"? (Answer: Neither. Nobody talks like that unless they’re in a Jane Austen novel.)

Then came the waiting—a brutal game of emotional limbo. It was like crushing on someone you met at a coffee shop: Do they remember me? Will they call? Or was it all in my head?

I wish I could tell you I was stoic when the rejection emails came in. Honestly, I wasn’t. Getting a polite but firm “Sorry, not what we’re looking for” was like being friend-zoned after mustering all your courage. But what I didn’t realize back then was that rejections aren’t dead ends—they’re signposts. They helped me get better.

When I finally got my tentative “Yes,” it was as thrilling as a double text that says, “I had fun last night… wanna grab dinner?”

Lessons from My First Byline (That Apply to Life and Love)

Looking back now, I can see how nailing that first byline and navigating relationships share a lot of common ground. Here are a few lessons my awkward journey taught me, and they’re pretty handy even if you’re not trying to impress an editor or woo a crush.

  • Put yourself out there, even if you're scared.
    I spent weeks in my own head, wondering if what I wrote was “good enough.” The truth? It doesn’t matter how polished or perfect you feel—it’s about showing up. Whether it’s submitting that story or starting a conversation, the bravest thing you can do is begin.

  • Rejection isn’t personal.
    That rejection email wasn’t a judgment on me as a human being (though at 23, it sure felt like one). Rejections are just mismatches—they mean, “Not here, not now,” not, “You’re fundamentally unlovable.” Keep going.

  • Celebrate every “Yes,” no matter how small.
    Was that first piece earth-shattering investigative journalism? Hardly. But it was proof that one tiny step forward matters. Whether it’s a first date, a new connection, or your first acceptance letter, revel in it. Wins—big or small—have a way of building on themselves.

  • Show, don’t tell.
    My editor’s best advice on storytelling is also great dating advice. Don’t just say, “I’m adventurous”—share the time you booked a one-way ticket to Costa Rica armed only with a backpack and three phrases of Spanish. Details matter.

Print and Validation in a Digital World

In a way, that first byline felt even more special because it was printed. There’s something grounding about flipping to your name in tangible ink—physical proof that someone somewhere thought your words were worth sharing.

Today’s world thrives on clicks and reads, algorithms and shares. I get it—I write for the internet now, too. But I still keep that magazine tucked away in a drawer, and, on occasion, I’ll pull it out for a hit of nostalgia. Seeing my name printed on that page reminds me how far I’ve come—from the dream of being published to helping others navigate this messy, human thing we call connection.

What’s Your “First Byline”?

My first byline may be literal, but we all have our version of that moment: the time you realized something you created mattered. Maybe it was your debut as the lead singer in your high school band, or the first time your date said, “You’re pretty great.”

Holding onto those moments—even if they came with stumbles or self-doubt—grounds us. They remind us that taking risks (whether with words or hearts) is how we grow.

So here’s my advice: Next time you feel on the fence about putting yourself out there—be it a story, a dream, or a flirtation—take the leap. You never know who might be waiting to say “Yes.” And trust me when I say nothing’s quite like seeing your name in a new and exciting place.