I have always had an affinity for writing, so much so that one of my earliest memories stems from my fourth-grade English class. In the wake of a lesson on informative essays, we were prompted with a question: “What do you want to be when you grow up?”
Though I am a handful of years away from then, my answer still rings true: I want to be an author.
It’s funny how life works. You get told your whole life that you’re good at something, so you move halfway across the country to pursue it. You take the classes, you learn the structure, you pitch stories to your editors and you let your work be reconfigured until it no longer feels like yours. As the cycle continues, the line starts to blur.
Sometime in early spring when sunshine is no longer an afterthought, you will find yourself sprawled out on the Quad, writing another article that someone might or might not read. You will labor over 300 words determinate of your worth, and you’ll hyperfixate on every grammatical error, on every discrepancy, until the edits become personal and you start to think, “Hey, maybe this isn’t for me anymore.” But what if it is?
I came to The University of Alabama in the fall of 2023 as a news media major with the hopes of becoming a hotshot writer with no need for a pen name. Since then, I have changed my major twice and haven’t written a single article since last June.
I have been asked numerous times over the past year, by friends and family alike, when I am going to make my inevitable return to journalism. I usually respond with something along the lines of “I’m too busy” or “I’m burnt out,” when in actuality, that’s not the case.
This semester, I found myself in a late-night conversation with a fellow writer. It was one of those discussions where you can’t quite remember where you were or how you got there, but what you do remember is how it made you feel — like time had slowed down just enough for honesty to slip through.
We weren’t discussing classwork or deadlines; we were discussing fear. Fear of exposure, of authenticity, of wearing our hearts on our sleeves. Fear of letting people read what I write, of letting them see too much of me.
I was honest then and I will be honest now — I hate sharing the things I create because I hate being vulnerable with those around me.
All things journalism aside, part of the human experience is learning to embrace the vulnerability that comes with imperfection. Not everything you do is meant to be palatable, and not everything you create is meant to be refined. There will be times in your life when people will “edit” every fiber of your being — whether that be your work, your words or how you choose to show up in the world. And if you are going to create — really create — you have to be willing to endure revision.
Emily Dickinson, revered albeit reclusive American poet, remained largely unrecognized during her lifetime, hindered by fears of public criticism. Sure, Dickinson published a few poems while alive, but she only did so under a pseudonym, prioritizing comfort over vulnerability.
I find it ironic — or perhaps poetic — that today, Dickinson is posthumously regarded as one of the most influential figures in American poetry.
Do not let yourself become a Dickinson.
Become comfortable with being uncomfortable. Share your work. Share the first drafts and the final copies; share the words still warm from your chest, the ones that tremble, the ones you almost didn’t write. And more than anything, share yourself. You were not made to receive your flowers postmortem — you were made to receive them while living.
