I Almost Killed C.R. Hughes

It happened — the very thing I had spent years trying to avoid.

Someone from my personal life found my writing.

It was subtle at first. A new follower on my poetry Instagram. The name felt familiar — too familiar. It was someone I went to school with years ago, someone I hadn't spoken to in ages. And yet, somehow, they had followed the trail of breadcrumbs that led to my secret writing world.

My hands trembled. I wasn’t ready for this.

In that moment, I panicked. Deactivated my socials. Switched profile pictures. Scrubbed bios. Removed mentions of where I’m from or who I am beyond the pen name I’ve been hiding behind for so long. I thought about the nuclear option — deleting everything. Erasing the identity I created online that feels more honest than the one people know offline.

But how do you kill the version of yourself that finally gave you freedom?

The Dual Life of a Writer
My pen name isn’t just a catchy alias. It’s a boundary. A bubble. A way to protect the most fragile parts of myself while still letting them breathe.

Behind that name, I’ve written things I’ve never said out loud. I’ve shared the truth about my struggles with identity, religion, relationships — things I still can't say to some of the people closest to me.

Not because I’m ashamed.

But because I’m not sure they'd understand.

Or worse, they’d try to define me by a single paragraph, a single confession, forgetting that I’m a whole person still figuring it all out.

So I created a space where I could be raw, creative, vulnerable — without looking over my shoulder. And I’ve found a community there. People who don’t know my face, but who know my heart.

Which is why the idea of someone from “real life” stepping into that sacred space without invitation felt like a violation.

Facing the Fear
What was I so afraid of?

I think, at its core, it’s this: I’m not the same person everywhere.

The version of me people see at work, at family dinners, even at church, isn’t the full story. It’s filtered, cautious. The online version — the writer — is more direct, more honest, more me.

But I’m still both.

And the fear is that once those two worlds collide, I’ll be misunderstood — or worse, reduced to just one version. A version I can't control in others' eyes.

But maybe that’s okay.

Because truthfully, I’ve learned that hiding only works for so long. Eventually, the things you write from the soul start to glow — and people see the light.

So no, I didn’t delete my account. I didn’t bury the writer I’ve worked so hard to become.

I’m still here. Quiet, cautious, but present.

A Quiet Return
Maybe I’ll come back to Instagram. Maybe I’ll share poems again. Maybe not.

But Vocal is still here. My words are still here. And if you're reading this, maybe you're someone who found me through all that chaos and stuck around anyway.

To those people — thank you.

Not just for supporting my writing, but for seeing me.

The real me.

All of me.

I Almost Killed C.R. Hughes
I didn't mean to. It was a joke—just a dare on a rainy Thursday. C.R. Hughes, always loud, always daring me to match his madness. "Race to the edge?" he laughed. I said yes. The cliff was slick. He slipped. Time froze. I grabbed his hand just in time, heart racing like thunder. He laughed it off, said I owed him a soda. I haven’t spoken to him since. That moment plays on loop in my mind. If I'd blinked... he’d be gone. I almost killed C.R. Hughes. But worse? I think he knows I almost didn’t catch him.