My first post! But not really. I lost my old website.

The one I had for two-ish years. Gone is all the work I put into it: late nights figuring out how to make a secondary page, mornings spent re-writing a late-night post on which I regretfully overshared.

I started that website because it was a requirement for the post-graduate program I was taking at the time.

I kept it going because I wanted to start sharing my writing.

When you’re an emerging writer—or, I imagine, any form of artist—it’s not easy to share your work. During those formative years of high school, when asked what I wanted to do with my life, I never told people I wanted to write books—likely induced after a guidance counsellor asked what ‘my backup plan’ was on the rare occurrence I confidently expressed my dream occupation. Most of the time, instead of announcing my plan to be an Giller-prize author, I would say ‘I don’t know but I want to write.’

Telling people I wanted to write books and share stories felt embarrassing. I felt like a child who dreams of being a princess or a unicorn while the adults in the room nod their heads and say ‘sure kid, you can do anything you want.’

See, somewhere along the way, people stop telling us we can do anything we want. Instead, they tell us there’s no money in writing. Instead, they laugh. Instead, they say ‘why study English? Don’t you know how to speak?” They think they’re so funny. Like you haven’t heard that a million times before. (Because, yes, when you spend years of university serving tourists, a lot of them ask what you’re studying and a lot of them laugh in your face if you don’t say something ‘respectable’ like biology, engineering, or finance.)

Anyway, I could spend days telling you all the reasons why I didn’t call myself a writer. And I could spend days telling you why I didn’t like letting people read my stories (honestly, I still don’t—consider yourself lucky), but the point was, the blog was created to help me get comfortable sharing my words. Blogging felt like the right amount of sharing: I could put it on a public platform where anyone could have access to it, but, honestly, who would read it???

It was reassuring when I would get four readers per month, and they’d all be from China or Ireland—nobody who knew me.

My friends and family weren’t supposed to read it. The few friends who have stumbled upon were met with some resistance (and a lot of anger). (If you’re reading this, I may owe you an apology.)

I still wasn’t very diligent in my writing. I wrote about some hiking trails and travelling adventures; I wrote some book reviews; and I wrote out some of my most profound thoughts (ha). I tried to write once a month but I’m not sure I held up to that goal. Basically, my blog was meant to be a space where I could write about anything I wanted, but it would force me to write at a time when I wasn’t writing regularly and it was a space where I could have the semblance of sharing my writing. It was my place.

Now, after losing my last website early in the year (a huge mistake), I’ve been working to get this new one set up. And I’ve been thinking a lot about the purpose I had when I first started and comparing it to where I am now.

Now, I have a new byline almost daily. Website traffic and social media engagement data shows that there are tens of thousands of people reading my stories. Now that I regularly write for a local newspaper and a lifestyle magazine, I think back to that original purpose of the blog.

Yes, I still need this blog to remind me to write. It’s one thing to interview someone and share their story for work; but it’s an entirely different experience to share your own thoughts and stories. I still need to remind myself to occasionally take a break from sharing others’ stories and actually write my own. I need the reminder to write what I want to write, and not just what I have to write.

But—and I’m shocked to say this—I don’t think I need the blog to be that middle ground between keeping my words to myself and sharing my thoughts. Maybe my ego’s been fed a few too many times this year (thank you CBC Nonfiction longlist), or I’ve become delusional in age, but I don’t need to encourage myself to share. It’s not because I’ve been published now, or because I know people are reading my words. Nope. Now, I am confident in my writing. I am proud of the words I use.

The difference isn’t that I’m a writer now—I have always been a writer. The difference is now I say it.

And I’ll never stop saying it.

I am a writer.