It was the kind of moment you plan for but secretly think might never come—like meeting someone at a party who just “gets” why Wes Anderson films are cinematic poetry. My first byline was both a triumph and a comedic disaster, a cocktail of exhilaration and imposter syndrome that I can only compare to a first date where you realize mid-conversation that you’ve been smiling so hard your cheeks might never recover.

The Submission That Started It All

Let me set the scene: La Jolla, mid-July. I was fresh out of college, still smelling faintly of the seaweed-infused hand soap at my dad’s organic grocery store (thanks to many shifts stocking shelves that summer). I adored writing, sure, but publishing? Oh, that was a gated community I wasn’t sure I’d ever be invited into.

The piece I submitted was this emotional-yet-quirky essay about finding inspiration in the tidepools of my childhood. (Seriously, is there anything more poetically ironic than a hermit crab finding a new shell?) I agonized over every word, going so far as to bribe my best friend into proofreading it with the promise of tacos. When I hit “send,” I felt like I’d just dropped my diary into the Pacific Ocean and hoped some kind of benevolent aquatic editor would rescue it.

Fast forward three excruciating weeks. I got an email with the words, “We’re thrilled to publish your piece.” My heart stopped. My brain short-circuited. I squealed so loudly my neighbor thought someone was dying. It felt like falling in love for the first time—if falling in love came with the added bonus of letting your parents casually boast about you to their friends at yoga class.

Dreams, Deadlines, and Debacles

The road to that first published piece wasn’t exactly smooth. Like many creative pursuits, it was littered with self-doubt and more moments of panicked second-guessing than I care to admit. I rewrote the opening sentence approximately 37 times. At one point, I convinced myself I was the world’s foremost expert in sounding pretentious and should immediately pivot to accounting.

But here’s the thing about writing—or dating, for that matter: You don’t get better by waiting for perfection. You get better by showing up, making mistakes, and learning along the way. As it turns out, a little raw honesty (and a dash of sea anemone metaphor) is all it takes to resonate with someone. That first byline wasn’t perfect, but it was mine. And it mattered.

Lessons from the Tidepool to the Page

Here’s what the whole experience taught me about showing up—not just in writing, but in life:

  • Start Before You’re Ready: If you wait until everything’s perfect, you’ll never start. And spoiler: Your “perfect” is someone else’s “this is exactly what I needed to hear.”
  • Find Your Voice: The ocean doesn’t try to be a river. (Yes, I know that’s peak Julianne imagery, but bear with me.) Embrace what makes your perspective yours; it’s the secret sauce that separates originality from just another essay or conversation.
  • Rejection Is Part of It: Not every piece I submitted that summer got accepted. But each rejection taught me something—about the process, about the audience, and about how to persevere without taking it too personally.
  • Celebrate the Wins—Big and Small: When the essay finally hit that online publication, I threw myself a mini beach bonfire party with friends. I toasted to the fact that I’d tried, I’d shared, and I’d survived the somewhat terrifying vulnerability that comes with putting yourself out there.

Writing (and Relationships) Require Courage

Here’s something I wish I’d realized sooner: Putting your writing out into the world is a bit like handing someone your heart. It’s messy, nerve-wracking, and faintly exhilarating. Whether you’re pitching an article, asking someone out, or opening up about your dreams to a new partner, vulnerability is the price of connection.

It’s also the key to growth. If I’d let fear win—if I’d let all those “what-ifs” convince me to keep my essay hidden in the dark recesses of my laptop—I wouldn’t be here, writing about that moment, sharing this truth with you today.

The Now and the Next

Since that first byline, life has unfolded in unexpected ways—kind of like pulling up a tidepool rock to discover a world you never knew existed. I’ve written about coastal wildlife, yes, but also relationships, breakups, the occasional questionable dating trend (looking at you, ghosting). The through line? A commitment to being honest, whether it’s about the quirks of marine ecosystems or the complicated joys of human connection.

So if you’re toying with your own creative leap—whether it’s writing, starting a podcast, or finally confessing your deep love for someone—just know this: The hardest part isn’t being good enough. It’s letting yourself be seen.

And trust me, the view from here is absolutely worth it.