Don’t Be a Stranger | Do It For You

Hey stranger,

Lately, I’ve been thinking about how it’s difficult to be a humanities major in a way that is very different from being a STEM major, and that is the creative freedom and the complete and utter — and horrifying — vulnerability that comes with it. 

It took me a while to figure out my footing, to analyze myself and ascertain what my true niche was creatively. I truly enjoy all forms of writing, but there is one that has always stood out to me in particular, one that I have always understood in the back of my mind to be the one that just makes sense. We all have our puzzle pieces. Although I’m concentrating on nonfiction for my major, I’m a poet before anything else. I’ve only just started submitting my poetry to literary undergraduate magazines this year, all because I was just too riddled with nerves to do it before.

This helped me comprehend how often nerves truly prevent our success. I knew it was true, but I had yet to grasp the sheer severity of it, how much I was getting in my own way. The catalyst for this brazen step forward in terms of my career as a poet happened, funnily enough, during a night hanging out with my best friends.

My friend, who I became close with in a matter of minutes, who is always prepared with the most sage life advice one can offer, who I love very dearly and like a sister, read some of her work to me. Although she is a biology major, she still has a love — and a knack — for writing in all of its various forms. Her work is beautiful. Her fearlessness inspired me in a way that I hold so much gratitude for. She didn’t know it, but her braveness was that little push that I needed.

I had never shared my poetry with anyone — not on purpose, at least. I had to read a poem I wrote for one of my creative writing classes, but I made sure that it wasn’t too personal. When someone would ask me to show them my work, I’d always say something along the lines of, “No, you’re never going to see that, so give up now.” It was one of my greatest fears, to display that form of raw vulnerability. In a way, it still is. I’m unsure if that will ever really go away. Making an exhibition of yourself, of all your intricacies and complexities, is not something that can be done lightly. Prior to this night with my friends, I did not share my poetry with anyone if I could help it, not even those closest to me, not even the fellow writers surrounding me. 

I can’t put my finger on what exactly it is that is so utterly mortifying about the act of putting your own work on display for people to read and judge. Even if you only show it to one person, it feels like you’re broadcasting it to the world. Especially with poetry, something that can be so incredibly intense and intimate, the concept of granting someone else the privilege to be privy to that, to the innermost workings of your heart, of your soul — it’s terrifying. It’s the act of knowing that you are allowing yourself to be susceptible to judgment and criticism from others and choosing to still do it, and I believe that plays a major role in the fear I felt.

But that night, something changed. I let my guard down, and I shared my poetry with my friends — intentionally!

They loved it, which was not only reassuring but immensely encouraging. That night, I submitted my poetry to multiple different undergraduate literary magazines. I did not think twice about it. I did not allow myself to doubt my work, nor did I criticize myself or think twice before pressing the submit button. I just did it. I jumped in head first, because I owed it to myself. 

Which brings me to my point — you owe it to yourself. If there is anything you are working on creatively that you are even minorly proud of, that you believe would make an impact on other people, you owe it to yourself to share it with the world. You owe it to yourself to take all of that time and effort and vulnerability and soul-searching that you dedicated and make it mean something to someone more than only you.

I’ve written about trying to shake off the fear of judgment before, and I am cognizant of the fact that it is so much easier said than done — take it from me, it took 20 years. Everything will fall into place, you just have to let it.