The Moment It Hit Me

It didn’t really feel like much at first. I was standing in my kitchen, the toaster mid-pop, clutching half a slice of avocado that never quite made it onto the bread, scrolling through my phone absentmindedly. And then I saw it—a notification that my first-ever published article had gone live. My byline was there. My name was there, in italics, just casually hanging out under the title like it wasn’t a monumental shift in my personal universe.

To anyone watching—namely, my very unimpressed cat—it probably looked like I was having a normal Saturday. But inside? Inside, I was a firework display, full-on emotional roller coaster, and rom-com montage all rolled into one. My journalistic debut had all the high-stakes thrill of a perfect first date: equal parts excitement, terror, and several rounds of “Is this really happening?”

Writing in Secret: The Early Stages

To properly understand the significance of this moment, you should know that I was secretly writing this piece at ungodly hours, clutching cups of half-drunk tea while sneaking moments on my laptop. Back then, writing felt personal, almost like slipping a note in someone’s locker and praying they read it the way I intended. I originally didn't tell anyone—not friends, not family, not even the group chat. Why? Call it self-preservation, call it fear of rejection, call it whatever makes you feel better about your last failed crush.

Think of it like this: writing your first article is a bit like boldly texting a new love interest without over-editing. "Hey, I like you. Here’s a piece of my soul. Don’t crush me." There’s risk, there’s drama. There’s the unbearable weight of wondering if you’ve just overshared or nailed the perfect balance of charm and depth.

The Call You Don't Forget

I still remember the email from my editor because it read like something out of a middle-of-the-road inspirational Netflix original: “We think this fits perfectly for us. Let’s publish it.” One short sentence. That’s it.

Now, imagine you’re at the start of a relationship and the next day, the person you just went out with texts: "That was fun. Let's do it again." And you’re like, "WHAT DOES THAT MEAN? Are they into me? Are they just being nice? Am I about to turn this into an overthink spiral that ends with me crafting an apology for the text they haven’t even responded to yet?"

I read the email at least twelve times. Did they really want it? Or did my editor accidentally send this and mean to delete it half a second later? In the dating world, this is the equivalent of analyzing a single punctuation mark for hidden meaning. Did they use a period? A question mark? No emojis?

Hitting 'Publish': The Big Moment

Finally, the toast incident happened, and it was live for the world to see. I was elated, but deep down I couldn’t help but feel a stab of fear, kind of like you might after buying a particularly daring outfit online. (What if the fit is all wrong? What if it looks better on someone else? What if it leaves me feeling, I don’t know, exposed?)

There’s this ripple effect that happens during moments like this—you start wondering if everyone you’ve ever known is about to chime in with an unsolicited opinion. A beloved, well-meaning aunt might send a supportive but slightly off-base comment like, "I’m so proud of you. Isn’t writing just like typing on a nicer typewriter?" A frenemy from middle school, meanwhile, might suddenly pop in with a “like” on social media that says less “Congrats!” and more “I see you, but I’m watching.”

Putting yourself out there in any way is terrifying. People romanticize firsts—first kisses, first loves, first dances. But what they don’t tell you is just how vulnerable those moments make you feel. Whether it's the first time you say “I really like you” or the first time you present your work to the world, you’re basically carrying your tiny, fragile hope in your hands and praying no one drops it.

Lessons from Your First Byline (or Life’s Firsts in General)

Here’s the thing about firsts: They’re rarely perfect. In fact, they might be messy, awkward, or downright terrifying. But like any relationship or big leap, they teach you things you didn’t think you’d learn until you were right in it. Here are a few lessons I picked up from that first published moment:

  1. Be Okay with Cringe-Worthy Beginnings. Your first article, like your first crush or first date, will likely make you cringe in hindsight. Expect to re-read it years later and think, “Why all the metaphors?!” But that’s okay. Cringe is proof you’ve grown.

  2. Rejection Isn’t the End. Before this byline? I’d submitted three (all rejected). It’s a lot like dating—most attempts don’t land, but when one unexpectedly does? It’s electric.

  3. Celebrate the Win, However Small. Whether your first moment of success feels like fireworks or just a polite clap, let yourself soak it in. Too often, we move onto “What’s next?” before stopping to enjoy the now.

  4. Everyone’s Faking It a Little. Even the writer whose articles inspired me admitted they panicked before pressing “submit.” We’re all just winging it. You’re not alone.

The Afterglow

When it comes to firsts—be it a written byline or a declaration of love—there’s no guarantee how they’ll go. But here’s the one thing I’ve learned: regardless of the outcome, you’re never quite the same after. That first article gave me a tiny seed of confidence, the kind you nurture and grow until one success leads to another.

And much like dating, your first might not end up being the best, but it will always be the one you remember most vividly, down to the slice of half-eaten avocado and inquisitive stare of your cat. That’s the magic of firsts—they remind us that the act of trying, of showing up, is often the biggest success of all.