I Didn't Write This For You To Read

I don’t usually share my writing with people I know.

It’s not that I’m ashamed of what I write—it’s just that the moment you let someone in, especially someone from your real life, everything feels a little more… exposed. I worry people will read into things. That they’ll recognize themselves in a sentence. And that if they do, they'll be hurt or feel uncomfortable. Or they’ll decide that something isn’t “true enough.” Or maybe they’ll just think it’s bad.

So usually, I keep things quiet. I submit my work, I celebrate any wins privately, and I move on.

When Vocal announced their Self-Editing Epiphany challenge—asking writers to share how a piece had changed through revision, and what that transformation revealed about them—I knew exactly what I wanted to write about: the time I rewrote my Columbia admissions essay. I discarded the safe version of myself and finally put the real me—the queer, terrified, honest me—at the center of the story.

It was one of the most personal things I’d ever written.

And for some reason, I posted it.

On my public Instagram story.

Even before I hit “share,” I could feel the nerves crawling under my skin. I hovered over the button. Reread the caption. What if this was the moment I said too much? What if I let the wrong people in? Maybe this was the post I’d regret.

I posted it, and immediately deleted it.

And then, in a wave of courage, I posted it again.

I didn’t expect anyone to read it, or if they did, I didn’t expect them to read the whole thing. I expected a few kind words from my closest friends or current classmates. Maybe I’d get a like or two from the people who like my stories no matter what I post. But I figured most people would just… click through. Just another post in their feed.

But people actually read it.

And they started reaching out.

First, it was as I expected. A few close friends reached out to say that they were proud of me. Then, a classmate I hadn’t talked to since high school messaged me. Then a friend of a friend—someone I barely knew. One of my high school teachers and former advisors. Even complete strangers.

The messages came in slowly at first, then poured in all at once.

Some were short—”This was so good,” “Thank you for sharing,” “I’m so proud of you,” “This actually made me tear up.” Others were thoughtful and deeply personal.

One person commented,

This was emotional for me as a mum of a queer adult son who is also autistic.

"But when I finished writing it, I didn’t feel proud. I felt small. Like I had just put together a glossy brochure for a life I no longer lived"— this line hit me hard, sounding much like something my son would say.

I kept rereading that one. It was so specific and honest and unexpected and vulnerable. That comment alone made the fear of posting feel worth it.

Someone else called it “a masterclass in personal reflection.” A masterclass. And all I had done was tell the truth.

Strangers. Strangers wrote:

• “I don’t even know you, but I’m proud of you.”
• “I’m so glad the you of the present was able to embrace both honesty and your true self.”
• “Your essay was incredible. Thank you for being so open about your experience.”

From my old high school teacher who told me “this was awesome,” to a former coworker who said hearing my queer backstory was inspiring, to those complete strangers expressing their pride for my courage—people were reading my story.

The kind of people I assumed would scroll past without a second thought—they didn’t.

They read my words.

And they saw me in them.

That’s what hit me the hardest.

These people weren’t just reacting to a well-written essay or well-thought revisions. They were connecting to the truth inside it.

The parts I had been most afraid to write, even when the only readers were going to be the Columbia admissions team—my queerness, the shame, the sentence I almost deleted—those were the very parts that resonated with people, and made them reach out.

Writing that story helped me reflect on my own emotions and the thought process that went into my final admissions essay. Posting that story showed me what risky writing can do—not just for myself, but for those who read it.

It made me realize something I hadn’t quite understood until that moment: our most personal stories are often the ones with the widest reach. They don’t push people away. They pull them in. They help others feel seen, even if their experiences aren’t exactly the same.

Those stories—the ones that begin with a sentence you’re too afraid to say, the ones that feel like they risk too much—might be the one that makes someone pause. That makes someone feel seen, feel heard, feel less alone.

That’s the thing about storytelling: when it’s honest, it ripples. From text on screens to words on pages, writing connects us all.

That essay didn’t just win a Vocal Challenge, it cracked something open. In me, and somehow, in others, too.

I didn’t expect anyone to read it.

And when they did, I didn’t expect to feel lighter.

But I did.

Not just as if a weight had been lifted off my shoulders, but as if something inside me had actually shifted—like I was stepping into the sunlight after standing in a cold shadow for too long.

Like I had made space for a voice I’d kept quiet for far too long.

And now I know, that if something I write helps even one person feel seen, then that story was worth telling.

And I’m going to keep telling mine.