A confession of a published author: Learning to say my name
Moving forward despite my fears led me to a reality I never thought possible.

For a long time, I introduced myself as if I were apologizing. It showed in the way I spoke, the way that I hesitated and the way I softened my presence, so it wouldn’t inconvenience anyone. 

I would mumble my name quickly, like it was something to get through. I learned how to be agreeable, how to blend in and exist without being noticed. It wasn’t that I didn’t have opinions, dreams or ambition. It was that I didn’t think people would want them.

I grew up believing that confidence was something other people were born with. Some kids raised their hands without fear in class, some spoke publicly without rehearsing, and some believed their thoughts deserved space. While I believed that I could never be confident. 

So, instead, I learned to observe, to listen carefully and measure my words like they were glass that’d shatter with the slightest carelessness. And somewhere along my habit of silence, I picked up the pen. 

Writing did not begin as an ambition or a goal. It was a space where silence didn’t have to be my identity. When I wrote, I didn’t need to judge my own thoughts or check the room. The page never rushed me, and I could take as long as I wanted to finish a thought. I could even restart if it didn’t sound right. 

For the first time, I felt heard—by myself.

I treated writing like a private language, like it was something sacred that could disappear if mentioned aloud. I filled notebooks and documents with stories that no one asked for or read. Yet, I kept going.

Amidst that routine, something changed. I began to recognize patterns—not just in my writing, but in myself. The characters I wrote were braver than I was. They made decisions I avoided and spoke when it mattered. At first, I thought that meant I was using fiction as an escape. Eventually, I realized that I was practicing for a dream: becoming an author.

Still, I couldn’t imagine calling myself an author. The title felt too big, too public, and required too much confidence. Authors were people who knew their directions in life, while I was still trying to figure out who I was. 

When I finally decided to publish my work, it felt terrifying rather than triumphant. Putting my name on something permanent felt exposing. I reread all of my works obsessively, not because I wanted them to be perfect, but because I was afraid that they would reveal too much about me.

When my first book went live, I didn’t celebrate. I quietly stared at my laptop screen and felt exposed. My name was clearly printed, not tucked into a corner. And I remember thinking—now, people can judge me.

And they did. Some responses were kind, and some were validating. But others send me challenges I didn’t brace myself for. 

Questions emerged on whether the story really was mine. And speculations followed, “It must have been generated.” These comments didn’t attack my story, but they attacked the possibility of me. And that was something I didn’t know how to respond to.

Being told that my voice wasn’t believable elicited a strange feeling. All the mental cages I broke through were reduced to something void of meaning and humanity. And through these challenges, I realized that others’ doubts don’t always come in the form of jealousy or malice. It can be manifested from their disbelief that someone like me could have written something worth noticing. 

I started doubting myself again. I reread my own writing and feel disconnected from it, like it belonged to someone else. I thought: maybe I had been lucky and didn’t deserve to claim writing as a talent of mine. And maybe, the quiet kid was never meant to step forward.

That was the most terrifying part of my journey—not failure, but erasure.

Growing up, no one tells you what coming-of-age can look like. Sometimes, it isn’t about learning how to speak louder, but learning how to stand by your voice when others question it. And this maturity can only arrive when you decide to stand tall for yourself. 

I didn’t argue with anyone or defend myself publicly. I merely returned to the only place that ever felt honest—I wrote. Just for the sake to continue.

That choice caused a crucial change in me. Because for the first time, I wasn’t writing to be seen, I was writing to stay where I belonged. 

Slowly, things began to shift. People reached out—not to question, but to connect. Readers shared how my words stayed with them. And supportive conversations were held, including a dialogue with the Mayor of Mississauga.

But what mattered most wasn’t the new labels that I was given. It was that I spoke without shrinking. I no longer rushed my sentences, and I didn’t downplay my work. I said “I write” instead of “I just write.”

People began to look at me differently. Some with curiosity and some with respect and some as inspiration. But being inspiring scared me, because I still remember the version of myself that was quiet and uncertain. The idea that someone might see strength in my journey felt heavy. But it also felt right.

If my writing taught me anything, it’s that growth doesn’t erase who you were. It carries all the versions of you forward. The shy version of me didn’t disappear; he learned how to breathe in his own name. 

My upcoming book, Blue Tiger, represents empowerment for myself—that confidence can exist despite fear. Because the best way to affirm my value is to decide to move forward, regardless of my self-doubt.

I still hesitate sometimes and feel the creeping up of my old instinct to shrink my presence. But now, when I say my name, I let it sit and take up space.

My coming-of-age is not becoming someone new, but finally believing the person that I’ve always been is enough to be heard.