I still remember the way the editor’s email glowed on my screen, like a neon sign blinking “YOU DID IT!” My first byline, crisp and clear, next to words I’d agonized over for weeks. It was the kind of adrenaline rush you get when you realize someone actually texted back after three days of “seen” purgatory—you’re ecstatic, but also slightly terrified. I was fresh out of undergrad, still finding my voice, and there it was: my name in black and white, right under the headline of a modest op-ed for The Washington Post.

To this day, I can’t decide what was the biggest thrill: the byline itself, the paycheck that covered one month of Metro fare, or the fact that for the first time, my thoughts mattered to someone who wasn’t stuck sitting next to me in a lecture hall. That first published piece taught me a lot about writing, rejection, and—strangely enough—relationships. Because, let’s face it, putting your writing out into the world is basically emotional streaking. And writing about relationships, like I do now? Well, that’s just inviting people to critique the color of your emotional underwear.

Let me take you back to how it all unfolded.

Getting the Call: Or, the Editorial Equivalent of “So… What Are We?”

Submitting that essay was basically like sliding into the DMs of a celebrity crush. I didn’t expect a reply. That pitch was one small voice among thousands, like whispering “hi” at a Beyoncé concert. Weeks went by with no response, and I assumed my piece had been ghosted. At least workshopping it was good practice, right?

And then, one random Tuesday during lunch, I got the reply. They were interested. But (and there’s always a “but”), they wanted edits. Real edits. The kind that involved restructuring whole paragraphs and “taking a stronger stance.” Their response might as well have said, “We like you, but… could you try not being so YOU?”

Now, I took that feedback as I imagine most people do: I spiraled. Was my writing too soft—like a Tinder bio that mentions loving dogs and tacos but says nothing interesting? I worried my essay lacked that “oomph,” the spark that could ignite interest rather than dwindling in lukewarm meh. But instead of giving up, I got out of my feelings and got to work.

Lesson one: Relationships—whether with editors, partners, or yourself—thrive when you’re willing to take constructive criticism without letting it crush you.

Writing Through Imposter Syndrome (And Other Awkward First Date Feels)

Here’s what no one tells you about writing: hitting “send” is way scarier than starting. Editing my article for publication felt like trying to pick the perfect line to say in a first date’s awkward silence. You know they’re judging every word, so the pressure to stick the landing becomes overwhelming.

I fought every urge to overthink. Would this analogy make sense, or was it like sending 17 emojis in one text? Did I sound too preachy, or not confident enough? By the time I submitted the revised piece, I was mentally exhausted but relieved—kind of like how you feel after pouring your soul into a late-night “what are we?” text.

What got me through? A simple mantra: “Write like you’re talking to a friend.” Which, ironically, is great advice for dating too. Authenticity? Always wins.

Lesson two: You don’t have to impress everyone. You just need to connect with who matters.

The Byline: A Glow-Up Moment (With a Side of Anxiety)

When the article finally dropped, my nerves boiled over. It was like waiting for someone to compliment my new haircut when secretly, I wasn’t sure I pulled it off. I blasted the link to everyone I knew, from my former professors to my cousin who only reads memes. Some praised it. Others skimmed it. A guy from my study group in college randomly created a Twitter thread disagreeing with everything I’d said (Was this professional beef? I couldn’t tell!).

The byline felt exhilarating, but fleeting. By the end of the week, people had moved on—and truthfully, so had I. The high dimmed, but what stayed with me was deeper than recognition. With that first byline, I’d earned the courage to say, “My voice deserves to exist, flaws and all.” And the more I practiced saying it, the less terrifying it felt.

Lesson three: External validation is nice, but it’s no substitute for believing in yourself. Think of it like compliments on a dating profile photo—great in the moment, meaningless without self-esteem.

Replaying the Journey—And Its Unexpected Lessons

Looking back, that first publishing experience carried uncomfortable parallels to relationships, whether romantic or platonic. There’s the vulnerability of putting yourself out there, the learning curve of understanding someone else’s expectations (in this case, an editor’s), and the lesson that moments of connection, whether fleeting or long-lasting, are worth the effort.

Likewise, relationships—whether they last six hours or six decades—teach you about yourself in ways you wouldn’t learn otherwise. That first op-ed taught me that rejection won’t kill me, that persistence matters, and that my natural voice could resonate if I stopped trying to sound like everyone else.

In writing, as in life, the only way to stand out is to actually be yourself. That takes courage, but it’s the currency for any meaningful connection.

Empowering Takeaway: Go Write (Or Love) Like You

So, here’s my advice. Whether you’re writing your first article or exploring a new relationship, don’t overthink it—or yourself. The goal isn’t to please everyone; it’s to find the spaces where you can show up and truly be seen. Sometimes that means editing, tweaking, and growing, but none of that is about erasing your core.

In romance, writing, and life, your name—your byline—is your truth. Wear it boldly. And remember: just because someone doesn’t “publish” you (or call back) doesn’t mean you’re not worth reading, seeing, or loving.

Now, my turn’s over. Your story—romantic or otherwise—is waiting for its first byline. Keep writing it.