Most of my adolescence was spent avoiding the spotlight. One day in a student government meeting, the fresh paint fumes of my new high school gave me the temporary boldness to write my name on the sign-up ballot sheet.
The Class Historian combines similar duties to high school newspaper and yearbook. They’re responsible for writing narratives on school activities, taking photos and collecting keepsakes for the year with full creative reign. Between my long foray in journaling and scrapbooking, I’d basically been preparing for the position all my life.
As the title may have given away, the person who ran against me won.
Before I had a chance to take my campaign poster off the hallway wall, a blank space was left in the center where my photo once was. A second loss in one day.
The Postal Service album aptly titled “Give Up” served as the soundtrack to my self-pity. My peers offered some variation of “at least you tried” with sad eyes. At the time, their attempts to make me feel better did the opposite. I preferred a solo pity-party. The sooner my schoolmates forgot about it, I could too.
At sixteen, it was my most public setback. I could’ve easily withdrawn into myself and vowed to stay within my comfort zone but after ample wallowing there was a shift. In a similar logic to falling off a bike, taking that first big fall made risks seem less intimidating. Sure they can sting but I’ve bounced back from them before.
The following year, I landed a position as an Orientation Leader at my college. A year after that I was selected as a Resident Assistant. The public facing roles built my confidence back up and reminded me of my capability of strengthening a community. Not to mention the free room and board sweetened the deal.
“You don’t know, if you don’t try” is an adage that usually applies pre-risk and in hindsight. But I find it softens the blow in the face of failure, too. Trying (and failing) is a sign of growth. Gumption is a great side effect of aging. Behind every laughter line is more moxie than I had the year before.
If I waited until I was ready and 100% comfortable, I would’ve never committed my heart to a long-distance relationship or switched majors three quarters into college or auditioned to be a Disney princess (I’ll save that story for another time). To this day, I could’ve been tweaking my blog until it was “perfect” only to push out the release date indefinitely. Some of the most rewarding things in my life were born out of shaky hands. I’m sad to think of an alternate universe where I didn’t take leaps out of my comfort zone.
If social media went away, I’d still have years worth of journals and a box of postcards and letters to paint a picture of my life. The Wobbly Table Blog is an extension of record-keeping in the best way I know how. By virtue of picking up a pen or opening a new Word doc, I’m a self-historian.
I felt as exposed sharing my first blog post as I was waiting for the school election results. Is being vulnerable worth it? Will I fail publicly? Am I speaking into an empty room?
In the two years since I started The Wobbly Table, the blog community has been a supportive space. Members of WordPress are the kind of people I was searching for in high school. Fellow writers and readers are intentional with their time and are here because they chose to be.
A stranger recently came across my post about making friends on Bumble. She moved to a new town and was nervous to download the app. After reading my post, she commented that I had convinced her to go for it, “after all, everyone is on there looking for the same thing.” Perhaps what made it mean so much was that she had no obligation to read my words or interact with my writing. To know that I’ve inspired someone to take the leap is more than I hoped for from my little corner of the internet. Sixteen year old me would be proud.
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