I spent the first half of high school on Tumblr. At the height of the platform’s popularity, I spent hours reblogging aesthetically pleasing photos of room decor, liking inspirational quotes on dramatic sepia-tones photographs, and reading pages and pages worth of fandom generated content. But during a time it when it was “in” to be on Tumblr, I made a tremendous effort to keep mine a secret. Because to be on Tumblr, was to have a representation of you on display.

The first lesson you grasp having grown up as the kid who was constantly picked on, is that being seen means being a target. So I learned to be pleasantly neutral. To digress my personality down to a pallid shade of gray. Become a blank canvas. Tell myself that things being thrown at the canvas is art in the making. I yearned to be the painter. Call writing my artistry. Each night, I wrote onto myself. Sometimes just a stroke, ten words to tell a story. Sometimes an entire series; an entire life catalogued, analyzed, romanticized. But being visible meant being seen. So I wrote addressing an audience I knew would never come.

I spent the latter half of high school writing speeches. I did nothing but stand in front of audiences. But I did nothing but hid behind competition codes. Today, the secrets I tell are those of competitor H38, last week it was J26’s, next week it’ll be G403’s. I did whiny spoken word poetry in front of some tolerant crowds. Hid in the line-up, look at the light so the faces fades away. Convinced myself this was conquering visibility.

I spent the first year of college telling myself I wasn’t a writer. Getting high off of crafting beautiful sentences just means I was a good student. Having notebooks filled with words just means I liked writing. I wasn’t a writer. Until I was a writer.

I spent the first four weeks after my first Odyssey article going live deflecting. When the first person approached telling me they had read my article, I panicked. Somehow between the editors showing me the numbers of Odyssey readers, between hitting submit, between posting about it on Facebook, I missed the fact that my words are going to be read. So I spent the first eight weeks after my first article going live detaching my writing from me.

Until the words no longer wrote.

It was 4 AM. The only light left in the room were the warm globe lights lining the wall. I have lists of ideas. I have half written drafts. But there were no words.

Hello? Is anyone reading this?

I’m scared of you.

I contemplated quitting, and I contemplated only ever posting listicles of ice cream parlors. But writing is my artistry. Canvases don’t paint themselves, I can’t wait around hoping thrown dirt makes art. I have come a long way from in figuring out my identity. So to stop writing now is to concede to fear. To regress back into an insecure 14-year-old who hid anything not remotely bland about herself because of the actions of a few bullies. So cheers to a new article. And cheers to the many, more to come.