It starts with a horse. Well, no—first, it started with a girl, the kind of first crush you don’t realize is a crush until later, when you’re old enough to look back and connect the dots. She was a summer visitor to Telluride, trailed by her family like a row of ducklings on one of our guided horseback tours. I was sixteen and sunburned, wearing jeans that scraped the tops of my boots because I hadn’t hitched them up quite right before mounting. She had freckles scattered across her face like constellations and asked smart, pointed questions about the horses—like why Chief, my usual mount, wasn’t out that day. (Chief hated tourists. Tourists hated Chief. It was mutual.)

What does this have to do with my first byline? Well, it’s everything, really—because if it weren’t for her innocent curiosity, I probably wouldn’t have run home that night to write a story about Chief. And if I hadn’t written about Chief, I wouldn’t have sent it on a whim to the small regional magazine that sat on every coffee table in town. And if I hadn’t done that, I wouldn’t be here, years later, telling you about the first time I ever saw my name printed under a headline. Funny, isn’t it? Like the way a single thread can pull a whole sweater into focus.

The Spark: How Horses (and a Crush) Lit a Fire

Let me set the scene. At sixteen, I wasn’t some prolific wordsmith; I wasn’t journaling about deep truths or scribbling poetic odes. I was just a kid trying to figure out why the heck Chief, a cantankerous old gelding, could ignore human existence with such purpose. There was something deeply relatable about his stubbornness—his absolute refusal to engage unless it benefited him. And so that night, I hammered out what I’m sure was a borderline incoherent draft titled, “Chief: The Horse Who Liked Nobody.”

My parents thought it was cute. A few days later, riding that rare teenage mix of cockiness and hope, I dropped it off at the modest office of Southwest Horizons, the kind of magazine that reviewed local diners and interviewed eighty-year-old ranchers about “the good ol’ days.” It never occurred to me I might hear back. But two months later, there it was: my words (edited for clarity and grammar, thank goodness) immortalized in print for everyone in town to read. Including the girl. Which, naturally, was mortifying.

That First Byline Feeling: A Mix of Joy and Cringe

There’s a strange thing that happens when you achieve something before you’re ready to appreciate it. It’s like breaking the seal on a bottle of champagne you didn’t realize was meant for a later occasion. Seeing my name in print was undeniable proof of what I could do. It was thrilling, sure—but also felt awfully permanent. Suddenly, I wasn’t just the ranch kid collecting loose tourist reins; I was “Gray McAllister, Published Writer."

I strutted onto the high school campus with the confidence of someone who thinks they own the world, only to be knocked back down by comments like, “I didn’t know you were, like, into horses like that” (delivered with the sharp edge of adolescent cruelty). To add insult to injury, my older brother spent weeks calling me “Chief Whisperer,” which admittedly was funny, but also stung.

As for the girl who inspired it? She might have read the piece; she might not have. Either way, she disappeared back into the summer haze, leaving me wondering if crushes are always meant to leave you with more questions than answers.

Lessons from the Chief Era: How Writing is Like Dating

The experience taught me some unexpected lessons—lessons I see echoed in relationships all the time, now that I’m old enough to string metaphors together like fairy lights.

  1. Put Yourself Out There. Sharing your work, your thoughts, your feelings—it’s vulnerable and scary. But how else do you know if it’s worth anything? Sure, your “submissions” (whether they’re article drafts or awkward first-date anecdotes) might not always land, but they’re a step toward something.

  2. Not Everyone Will Get It. Chief didn’t appeal to everyone. Neither did my writing, or my personality for that matter. And you know what? That’s okay. You can’t be all things to all people, and trying to please everyone is the fastest way to water yourself down.

  3. Find the Humor in Rejections. We used to joke on the ranch that if a horse throws you, you’ve got two choices: laugh it off or let the ground win. Writing—and dating, really—is the same. That first embarrassing moment is only as crushing as you let it be.

  4. The Long Game Matters. I didn’t know it then, but writing about a horse would be the first spark of a lifelong passion. Just like a good relationship, writing doesn’t have to feel huge or significant at the beginning. The best rewards show up after years of steady effort, when you’ve put in the hours to make it work.

From Hoofbeats to Headlines: Real Connections Take Work

Over the years, I’ve looked back on that byline and smiled at its simplicity. The story wasn’t groundbreaking; it didn’t change the world. But it was honest. There’s something undeniable about those first attempts—at writing, at love, at connection. They’re messy, awkward, and full of unpolished truths, yet they’re the foundation for everything that follows.

And isn’t that why we try in the first place? Whether we’re crafting sentences or laying the groundwork for relationships, the goal isn’t perfection. It’s to learn, to grow, and to keep showing up—despite the awkwardness and the Chief-like refusal of the world to always meet us halfway.

Wrapping Up: Your First Byline—Metaphorical or Literal—Is Waiting

I don’t know what your version of a byline is. A vulnerable message sent to someone you’re interested in? A first conversation after years of dodging deep topics? Writing your own version of “Chief: The Horse Who Liked Nobody”? Whatever it is, go for it. There’s magic in beginnings. I’ve learned that it’s when you feel bold enough to take that first chance—awkward boots, sunburn, and all—that you might just stumble into something lasting.

It’s not about being perfect; it’s about being curious, being present, and maybe, just maybe, letting the horses inspire you.