I still remember the exact smell of that morning—salt air mingled with stale coffee brewing in the kitchen of the inn where my mom hosted travelers from all over the world. A German couple with matching windbreakers had just returned from a sunrise hike at Cadillac Mountain, their voices lilting with excitement as they raved about the pink and golden “light parade” cresting over Frenchman Bay. I was sixteen, sitting at the dining room’s corner table with a notebook in front of me, working on the article no one had asked for.
It wasn’t my masterpiece. In fact, it wasn’t even my assignment. This was one of those “just for fun” projects—a piece about tidepools for The Mount Desert Island Gazette, the small weekly newspaper that most locals flipped through while pretending to wait for their lobster rolls at Beal’s Lobster Pier. Everything in me knew no one would publish a sixteen-year-old’s musings on barnacles and hermit crabs, but still I submitted it. I figured the worst that could happen was a polite form rejection—and maybe a momentary blush of shame whenever I passed by the Gazette office in town.
Instead, they published it.
When the Tide Turns: Finding My Voice in Print
The day the Gazette hit the stands with my byline on Page 3, I felt a surge of adrenaline I can only compare to swiping right and—against all odds—actually landing a match on someone impossibly perfect. It wasn’t just the thrill of seeing my name in print. It was that cosmic whisper, that electric jolt to the soul that says, Hey, you might be onto something here.
Let me set the scene: My article was titled “Secrets of the Tidepools,” and it chronicled an afternoon stroll I’d taken with my younger brother near Sand Beach, observing the quiet universe hidden in pools mapped by retreating water. I wrote about starfish so delicate they looked like they belonged in a jewelry box, mussels stacked in their own tiny apartment complexes, and the way anemones waved shyly like wallflowers at a middle school dance. It was the kind of metaphor-heavy, mildly pretentious writing teenagers excel at. To my surprise, I received enough compliments from cashiers, neighbors, and my high school English teacher to suggest that it landed somewhere between “earnest” and “not terrible.”
Here’s the part I didn’t expect: it wasn’t just a brush with creativity—it was a brush with vulnerability. Seeing my thoughts, my quirks, my tongue-in-cheek observations sitting there in black and white for the world (well, all 947 Gazette subscribers) to see was both exhilarating and terrifying. Much like dating, it demanded putting myself out there, not knowing if I’d be celebrated or utterly misread.
First Byline, First Love: The (Unexpected) Romance of Writing
You know that giddy, butterflies-in-the-stomach feeling you get right before a first date? That was me at the local Shaw’s grocery store, rushing to the newsstand. I expected to feel like a rockstar, holding up the paper and shouting, “That’s right, this kid wrote about shellfish, and you’re welcome!” Instead, I felt small and nervous, like I’d just left an overly honest voice memo for a crush who hadn’t replied yet.
What if people hated it? What if they laughed—not with me, but at me—the same way my cousins did when I once attempted to hand-feed an angry seagull? Putting your voice into the world, much like flirting with someone across a bar, requires guts. It involves risking rejection, misunderstanding, and that uniquely awful feeling of What if they don’t like me after they glimpse the real me?
Spoiler: people—especially Mainers—are kinder than you’d think. I learned that while writing requires courage, it also rewards authenticity. The essays that resonated most in the years that followed, both for me and my readers, weren’t the ones I aimed to make perfect. They were the ones where I let a little too much awkward earnestness spill over the edges, where I leaned into my weird love of seaweed, otters, and all things barnacle-related.
Lessons from My First Byline (That Also Apply to Falling in Love)
I’ve spent years exploring the parallels between writing and relationships—spoiler alert: they’re basically identical. Both require bravery, self-reflection, and more patience than the average person is ever prepared for. Looking back at my first article (and the fumbling chaos of young love), it’s clear I walked away with a crash course in authenticity.
Here’s what I learned from that first byline experience—valuable advice for navigating writing, relationships, or any scenario requiring a dash of gumption:
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Let Yourself Be Seen
Whether we’re talking about submitting an article or confessing your feelings to your crush, step one is the same: make the move. It’s scary and messy and vulnerable, but one thing is for sure—nothing happens if you don’t try. -
Remember That Some People Won’t Get It (And That’s Okay)
Just like your high school crush might not appreciate your Spotify playlist featuring emo folk ballads, not everyone is going to love your article about tidepools (or whatever your “thing” is). That’s fine. Your tribe—the starfish collectors of the world—will find you. You don’t need to win over everyone. -
Let Humor Be Your Anchor
I’m convinced that there’s nothing humor can’t either soften or salvage. Finding joy in your quirks—whether that’s confessing your undying love for Rachel Carson or describing how seagulls live in constant soap opera-worthy drama—lets people see the human in you. -
Trust When Others See Potential You Can’t Yet Recognize
As much as I like to think submitting that teenage article made me bold, the truth is that the Gazette editor—who had no obligation to publish it—saw something worth giving a shot. The people in your life who see the good in you when you don’t? They’re irreplaceable. Keep them close. -
It’s Okay to Be Proud of Yourself
Bragging feels weird. I get it. “Look, I wrote an article!” can sound as awkward as saying, “Look, someone agreed to date me!” But you did a thing—and that matters. Celebrate the win.
The Takeaway: Your First Times Are Always Worth It
Like that first tidepool article, your “first times” will rarely be flawless masterpieces. Whether it’s publishing your writing or stepping into a new relationship, those moments leave cringeworthy footprints we love to overanalyze later. But they also remind us why we start: because there’s thrill in risking big—even when the outcome isn’t perfect.
That morning in Bar Harbor, my fingers sticky with leftover blueberry jam and my heart racing, I imagined what it might feel like to keep writing stories—to string metaphors about sunsets and starfish for readers who just might find truth, beauty, or even a soft chuckle in my words. I’m grateful to that young, brazen version of me for clicking ‘send.’ Because when you tell your truth, whether in writing or love, you give the world something real—and nothing’s more satisfying than that.
So, in the grand scheme of first bylines and first sparks, let me say this: it’s worth it—every painfully vulnerable, ridiculously earnest moment. Go ahead—put yourself out there. Who knows where the tide will take you?
