On Putting Myself Out There

Some stories only begin once you find the courage to be seen.

For years, I wrote in the quiet margins of my life. Early mornings. Late nights. In the notes app on my phone between shifts. On napkins. On the backs of scrap paper. The writing wasn’t for publication. It wasn’t for praise. It was just for me. A way to process what I saw. A way to stay human.

I didn’t think of it as real writing, not in the capital W way. I wasn’t submitting poems or attending workshops. I wasn’t calling myself a writer. I was just someone who needed to write.

And for a long time, that was enough.

But eventually, the words started asking for more. They wanted to be heard. And I wasn’t sure how to do that without feeling exposed.

It is one thing to carry stories quietly. It is another to offer them to the world and trust they will be met with care.

What changed was a conversation. One I didn’t expect to matter as much as it did. A mentor, a physician and a writer I deeply respected, had read something I wrote and said, simply, “This needs to be out there.” Not because it was perfect. Not because it would win anything. But because it was honest. Because it might help someone else feel less alone.

There is a kind of courage that comes from being seen by someone you trust. It is different from external validation. It is an invitation. A nudge. A reminder that vulnerability can be a bridge, not a weakness.

Since then, I have started sharing more. Not everything. Not all at once. But enough. Enough to feel the shift from silence to connection. Enough to remember why I started in the first place.

Putting my work out there still feels risky. Every time. But I have learned that writing in isolation has its limits. At some point, the work asks to be witnessed. Not to be applauded, but to be met.

And slowly, I am learning to meet myself there too.