Your first time sucks
Let them call it cringe while you call it growth
The Glorious Fail is just getting started. And every voice here shapes what it becomes. We’re unlearning the silence, reclaiming the story, and writing a braver one, together. Every like, comment, restack, and every interaction brings this space to life.
You’re not just reading the story. You’re part of it. Thank you.
(Read until the end, there’s something I want to share with you.)
Chapter 14
What’s next: This isn’t just about failing anymore
Dear reader,
When I first started "The Glorious Fail," I was writing from the ashes. Failure was the lens through which I could finally speak. It gave me language for all the messy, nonlinear parts of growth.
But something happened along the way. The essays evolved. So did I. Now, the lens is wider. It still holds failure, but it also holds truth. Emotional fluency. Nervous system safety. Brave visibility.
Healing. A word I carry gently in the quietest part of my heart.
This space has become less about bouncing back and more about coming home, to the parts of us we muted to survive.
I may change the name of this publication one day. But for now, "The Glorious Fail" still feels right. Because owning our truth can still feel like failure at first. Until it doesn’t.
Thanks for staying with me while we grow.
No more whispering your worth.
Now, this week’s essay.
“Your first time always hurts”
I used to think I was cooler than you
Yes, you.
The one who’s been showing up online for years, quietly letting your messy truths spill over the edges. You, who never saw vulnerability as weakness, who never mistook honesty for desperation. I thought holding back made me powerful…superior even.
That quiet mystery was mastery. I told myself that only polished truths deserved daylight, that to be seen was to risk being unliked, misunderstood, or worse, exposed.
But now, looking back at my reflection, I see it clearly: My silence was never dignity, it was fear. Fear carefully woven from outdated beliefs, survival tactics, and the quiet terror of being truly seen and judged.
And you? You weren’t desperate. You were free.
Do you remember your first time?
Let me tell you about mine…
There’s a quiet moment I keep returning to, and perhaps it’s not one moment, but many gentle whispers, each guiding me through the darkness of a long tunnel, bringing the glow of clarity a little closer each time.
Moments that taught me how to grow, stretch, embrace my true self, and step beyond my insecurities, hesitations, and doubts. These moments are my firsts.
The first time I posted a comment on LinkedIn, my finger hovered over the "publish" button like it was a loaded gun. The funny thing? It wasn’t even a post, just a comment, and still it felt like a monumental leap. I actually stayed at that stage, commenting only for quite a while, cautiously testing the waters, gathering scraps of courage until I could write something fully mine.
When I finally did it, my palms sweat, my stomach tightened, my heart raced as if I’d accidentally shared some terrible secret. And the feeling wasn’t unfamiliar. It carried the shape of every first time I ever dared to be seen. Every quiet moment when I chose visibility over safety, truth over silence, growth over hiding.
It reminded me of the first time I entered a newsroom as a young, scared girl, stepping into a reality that felt too big for my body.
The first time I heard my voice on radio naming Arabic names in the aftermath of 9/11, knowing that every word, every syllable carried the weight of someone's story, someone's loss.
The first time I presented my first news bulletin, with hands steady on the desk but my heart hammering against my ribs.
The first time I delivered tragic breaking news that devastated Greece, learning that some stories crack you open even as you tell them.
The first time I stepped onto a plane, watching the ground fall away beneath me like letting go of everything I thought I knew. Everything familiar for something foreign.
The first time I sat at a conference table, surrounded by colleagues from every corner of the globe, with their eyes carrying silent expectations, realizing that understanding doesn't always need a common language, it needs a common willingness to be present.
The first time I led that same meeting, with knees trembling and a heart racing. So I slowed my voice and held their gaze. Not to prove I belonged, but to remember that I did.
The first time I led a team and learned that real leadership isn’t about being fearless, it’s about being human. It’s carrying your doubt with grace while helping others feel safe in theirs.
The first time I stepped into the lead during breaking news, without waiting for approval, discovering that sometimes you don't know you're ready until ready is all you have left to be. Held my breath, and didn’t let go until the broadcast faded to black.
The first time I fell apart under the weight of burnout and years of pretending I was fine.
The first time I decided it was enough.
The first time I admitted, quietly to myself, "I want more."
The first time I walked out of a newsroom without the label of "journalist", carrying nothing but myself. No title. No certainty. Just the quiet ache of shedding an identity that had once saved me. Like stepping barefoot into a future I hadn’t scripted yet.
The first time I entered what I now call my uncertainty era, looking forward, scared but electric with possibility.
And yes, the first time I cried. And then cried some more.
The first time I breathed after what felt like forever holding my breath.
You see the thread now, don't you?
How each first time was both an ending and a beginning, how they stack like stones in a cairn quietly marking the way forward.
I came to understand that visibility was always my battlefield, a silent war between who I was expected to be and who I was daring to become. Every time I stepped forward, I was choosing which version of myself would survive the light.
Every first time asks the same question: Will you stay in the familiar ache of what you know, or will you step into the beautiful terror of what you might discover?
"The cave you fear to enter holds the treasure you seek." — Joseph Campbell
Cringe is the new brave
There's a version of you you haven't fully met yet, not the optimized one with the perfect morning routine, not the healed one who never triggers or stumbles, not the one with tidy habits and content so polished it gleams.
But the one who dares to speak while still unraveling. The one whose knees shake when she shares her truth because vulnerability never stops being vulnerable, it just becomes worth it. The one who hasn't figured it all out but shows up anyway, trusting that authenticity matters more than perfection.
We all whisper the same mythology to ourselves: "I'll share more when I'm more polished." "I'll take up space when I've earned it." "I'll speak up once I've healed enough to not flinch when the light hits my wounds."
But neuroscience tells us something different. Our brains are designed for what researchers call "neuroplasticity", the ability to rewire and reshape throughout our entire lives. The neural pathways that create our sense of self aren't fixed highways carved in stone; they're more like walking paths through tall grass, deepened by repetition but always capable of change.
What’s fascinating even more is that the brain doesn't distinguish between "real" experience and vividly imagined experience when it comes to building neural networks. But it does distinguish between action and inaction. Every time you wait for the "perfect" moment to show up as yourself, you're actually strengthening the neural pathways of hiding. Every time you act despite not feeling ready, you're literally rewiring your brain to believe in your own capacity.
The research on identity formation reveals something profound: we don't become ourselves and then act authentically. We act authentically and then become ourselves.
The "future-self" version you're waiting to transform into doesn't exist in some distant tomorrow, she/he exists in the accumulated moments when you choose courage over comfort, when you speak before you're certain, when you show up before you feel worthy.
There is no arrival point where self-worth crowns you queen/king of your own life. There is only this moment, and the next one, and the choice you make in each: Will you trust that who you are right now, messy, magnificent, still-becoming you, is enough to step forward?
The only way to become her/him/them is to stop waiting to be her/him/them first. The only way to meet the version you're becoming is to stop postponing the introduction.
Cringe is what happens when vulnerability meets visibility, that full-body recoil from being seen in our unedited truth. It's your amygdala firing warning signals based on ancient data: times when being authentic felt dangerous, when showing up fully meant being rejected or corrected.
Research on attachment theory shows us that this response often stems from early relational patterns where authenticity wasn't safe. But here's what your nervous system doesn't know: that old data is expired. The cringe you feel isn't a stop sign, it's your psyche updating its software, learning that you can be seen and still be safe.
Courage doesn't always look triumphant
So what does it actually look like to push through that cringe and show up anyway? It looks nothing like the movies.
It looks like staying soft when the world demands hardness. Staying awkward when smoothness seems safer. Staying beautifully unfinished when everyone else appears to have figured it out.
It means refusing to sanitize your truth until it's honest, declining to polish your humanity into something sterile and safe. It's letting others meet you mid-sentence, mid-thought, mid-process, because your real courage isn't hiding in the fancy final draft. It lives in the messy, trembling voice that speaks despite the fear.
Let your truth breathe in public, even if your voice shakes. Especially then.
Courage sometimes it's silence, choosing not to speak when words would be weapons. Sometimes it's a day spent resting before burnout calcifies into breakdown. Sometimes it's simply refusing to fold your expansive story into the cramped box of someone else's expectations.
Real courage is sticky. Awkward. It makes you want to hide your face in your hands and wonder why you opened your mouth at all. But that vulnerability, it isn’t a flaw. It’s the bridge between who you’ve been and who you wish to become, built one uncomfortable truth at a time.
The cringe contract: A practical tool
Here's something you can use every time your finger hovers over that publish button, every time you're about to speak up in a meeting, every time you question whether your truth is worth the risk:
Before I speak or share, I ask myself:
Is this true for me, even if it's unpopular?
Can I handle the discomfort of being visible without immediate validation?
Will I feel proud of saying this, even if no one applauds?
Then I softly remind myself: "I give myself permission to cringe and grow at the same time."
Write this down. Stick it somewhere you'll see it daily. Let your humanity and your courage exist side by side, neither needing to be perfect to be powerful.
And if you're ready to train both your mind and your hand to show up bravely, whether on LinkedIn, here, or wherever your voice wants to be heard online, I've created something that might help.
A free storytelling toolkit designed specifically for that first post, that first share, that first brave step into visibility. A little inspiration and practical magic to bridge the gap between wanting to speak and actually finding the words.
The glorious unfinished
You don't have to be done to be loved.
Not done healing.
Not done growing.
Not done becoming.
Just...here. Present. Exactly as you are, in this moment, with your rough edges and tender spots and dreams that don't yet have names.
Still worthy.
Still enough.
Still gloriously unfinished.
The person you're becoming doesn't need your perfection, she needs your willingness. She needs you to stop waiting for permission that will never come and start giving it to yourself instead.
Your first times are still ahead of you. Your next brave moment is as close as your next breath.
Here's what I wish someone had whispered to me in all those moments when I was waiting to feel worthy enough to begin, and now I'm whispering it to you:
You're not returning because you finally became worthy.
You're returning because you always were.
Back into the body that held you through silence.
Back into the truth you tucked beneath performance.
Back into the holy labor of reparenting,
gently, daily, without applause.
Into the soft rewiring of your nervous system.
Into the warmth of rituals too quiet to boast.
Into the blueprint your body never forgot—
a map etched in longing, not perfection.
You are not arriving.
You are remembering.
Until next time,
Stay soft. Stay messy. Stay beautifully unfinished,
Eleni
Want the spotlight? Let’s ride this one together
✨ Hey beautiful humans,
It’s not enough to say thank you. So here’s what I’ll do instead: I’m opening up a new series in this space. I’m calling it: The Echo Seat.
It’s a way to say:
I see you.
I want to hear you.
This isn’t just my voice echoing in a void. It’s ours.
A little love letter to you, the ones who’ve been here, building, growing, stumbling forward with me.
I’ll be giving the spotlight to one reader/subscriber at a time: a post, a project, a moment you’re proud of.
If you’d like to be featured, just drop a message here or DM me. Tell me what you’ve been working on or holding close lately. What do you want to be seen for right now? You can share a link, a line, a lesson, a moment.
Each week, I’ll carefully choose one of you to spotlight in my Notes, and sometimes here too.
This space is ours. You get the seat. I write the echo.
You in?
Every Monday at 11:30 CEST, the Glorious Fail will meet you where you are, ready to disrupt, challenge, and rebrand failure.
🔖 There are plenty of ways to support the Glorious Fail:
→ If this landed a little too close to home, give it a like.
→ If you have thoughts, feedback, or just want to say hi, drop a comment.
→ And if it cracked something open and want to spread the word, hit that restack button below.
I felt your words reflect that the world we inhabit is always changing as we surrender—I appreciate the authenticity and willingness to share your thoughts and tell the truth about how hard it is to keep at it. Failing is never what we think—it’s bravery. Thank you for the encouragement to let it be just as it is.