Your First Time

On Creative Vulnerability and Coming Back

Do you remember your first time? If it was anything like mine, it was traumatic.

Not the fumbling, awkward kind of traumatic, though there was plenty of that too. I'm talking about the anticipation—the spiraling thoughts. The catastrophic scenarios playing on repeat in your head about how badly it could go, how much it might hurt, how exposed you'd feel afterward.

I'm talking about your first time posting after a long creative drought.

And as I sit here, cursor blinking at the end of this sentence, hands trembling just slightly as I hover over the publish button, I'm realizing I'm about to find out what my own first time back feels like.

It's been thirteen days since I went completely silent. Thirteen days of no podcast episodes, no newsletter, no social media updates (other than the ones I had the foresight to pre-schedule – thank you, Buffer), no client work, no art. My entire creative and business life just... stopped during our move. And with each passing day, the weight of that silence has grown heavier.

You know how it is when you've been out of practice. Everything feels more loaded, more significant. What used to be routine suddenly carries the weight of a grand reopening. You start building it up in your mind until it becomes this monumental thing instead of just... doing the dang thing.

The anticipation has become its own beast. Will anyone even remember I exist? Have they moved on? Will this first attempt back be clumsy and obvious—everyone able to tell I'm rusty, that I've lost my rhythm?

There's something almost intimate about creative vulnerability, isn't there? That moment when you're about to put yourself out there again after keeping everything private for so long. I'm hovering over this publish button like it's going to change everything, like once I press it, there's no going back to the safety of silence.

My brain, bless its sweet neurotic heart, has been spinning elaborate narratives about what my absence means. Surely my audience felt abandoned. Certainly, they noticed the gap and are questioning my commitment, my professionalism, my very worth as a creator, business owner, and storyteller.

I've convinced myself that thirteen days is an eternity in internet time—that I need to come back with something extraordinary to make up for the silence. Not just any old piece, but something worthy of a comeback. Something that justifies the wait.

The perfectionist in me is whispering (I lie, she’s yelling) that if I'm going to break this dry spell, it better be good. Really good. Mind-blowing, even. Otherwise, what's the point? Why risk the exposure, the vulnerability, the potential disappointment—both mine and theirs—for something mediocre?

It's funny how we turn creative expression into performance, isn't it? How we transform the simple act of sharing our thoughts into this high-stakes production where we're simultaneously the star, the critic, and the anxious audience member.

But underneath that familiar anxiety, there's something else stirring. Excitement. The tingling anticipation of connection, of sharing something real again. Of stepping back into the flow of creation and conversation that feeds my soul.

I keep refreshing this draft, tweaking sentences, second-guessing every word choice. Is this too casual after such a long break? Too personal? Too meta about its own existence?

My hands are shaking a little. Not from pure anxiety like they might have been a few years ago, but from this electric mix of nerves and excitement.

There's something almost sacred about this moment before hitting publish—when this piece exists in this liminal space between private and public, between mine and yours. Once I share it, it's no longer just mine. It becomes subject to interpretation, judgment, indifference. It becomes real in a way that feels both thrilling and terrifying.

The vulnerability of creative expression isn't just about sharing your thoughts or your art. It's about sharing your humanity, your imperfections, your struggles, your simple desire to connect with other people through the things you make.

Here's what I've learned about putting yourself out there, especially after a break: the anticipation is almost always worse than the reality. The stories you tell yourself about what others expect, what they need, what they'll think…they're usually fiction.

My audience isn't keeping a scorecard of my failures. They're not marking calendar dates, counting my absences, or preparing disappointed speeches about my lack of consistency. They're living their own fantastically chaotic lives, dealing with their own creative blocks, their own moves, their own thirteen-day silences.

The vulnerability feels so intense because creativity is intimate. When you share your work, you're sharing pieces of yourself, your thoughts, your perspective, your way of seeing the world. And after time away, that sharing can feel as nerve-wracking as any other kind of intimacy.

But I know this truth, even as my nervous system forgets it: most people approach creative work with generosity, not judgment. They want me to succeed. They're rooting for me, not waiting for me to fail.

The break wasn't a failure; it was necessary. This anxiety isn't weakness—it's evidence of how much the work matters to me. The gap between my anticipation and whatever reality awaits isn't something to be embarrassed about; it's instructive.

This first post back doesn't have to be perfect. It doesn't have to justify the absence or exceed everyone's expectations. It just has to be real. Honest. Mine.

Your audience isn't keeping score. They're not grading your comeback. They're just glad you're back.

The vulnerability I'm feeling right now? That’s a beautiful feeling. It means I care. It means the work matters to me. It means I understand that creativity is an act of courage, every single time.

So here I am, taking a deep breath. Feeling the nerves and the excitement in equal measure. Acknowledging the anticipation while choosing not to let it paralyze me.

Because the truth about creative vulnerability—about putting yourself out there, especially after time away—is that it's never as scary as your brain makes it out to be. And the relief, the joy, the simple satisfaction of sharing your work with the world? That part is always better than you remember.

I don't know how this will be received. I don't know who will read it, who will relate, who will care. But I know that sitting in silence serves no one, not me, not my work, not the people who might need to hear these words.

The world is waiting—not with judgment, but with curiosity. Not with scorecards, but with open hearts.

My finger is hovering over the publish button. My heart is beating faster. This is it—my first time back.

Here goes nothing. Here goes everything.

Click.