Too small pants

Someone I followed on twitter (X?) recently posted about how they spent their 20s wanting to be noticed, and their 30s wanting to make an impact.

I, too, spent my 20s wanting to be noticed. I hoped that someone (anyone! everyone!) would look at me and tell me that I was doing great. I wanted all the positive feedback, shining performance reviews and glowing testimonials. I wanted to prove to everyone else (and ultimately, myself) that I could be trusted. I wanted everyone to know that I was competent; when I was seen that way, I felt safe.

This is, obviously, some childhood sh*t. It’s an echo of my hyper-religious past, when I felt like I wasn’t allowed to fully be myself. In that era of my life, doing things perfectly was the best way to stay safe. I spent my 20s acting and reenacting this story.

During this phase, especially after I started freelancing, I also wanted everyone to see that I was a legitimate journalist. That, too, was something I worried about for years. Yes, I’d worked in journalism. But I hadn’t done much writing, and I didn’t have big bylines.

To solve this worry, I went for the big bylines — the prestige, the glory! — and spent months pitching places like The New York Times. At long last, an editor there (whom I’d been introduced to by a former colleague) accepted a pitch. Eight months later, my first New York Times story was published.

I remember the day it was published vividly. I was pregnant with my son, Liam, and I was violently ill. I’d expected to feel…