Do the Thing
The Terrible, Wonderful Art of Putting Yourself Out There
The other morning, my almost-six-year-old daughter, Molly—who might be the most emotionally intelligent member of our family—reminded me of something profound about fear. She’s been struggling with separation at drop-off, so I tried the whole Ross Greene approach, asking questions until we got to the root. It wasn’t the goodbye that was hard, she said, but that moment afterward—walking up to a group of classmates and asking if she could play.
I forget her exact words, but she described a kind of inner hesitation. I knew that feeling immediately— the fear of leaving safety for connection, the fragile in-between of not yet belonging, the terror of being rejected or ignored. You look at a cohesive group and imagine everyone in it has always belonged—but of course, every one of them has stood on the outside at some point, gathering the courage to approach.
In my workshops on writing for shame resilience, we talk a lot about vulnerability. Vulnerability means taking a risk—saying something real without knowing how it will land. It’s letting someone see a part of us we usually keep hidden. Maybe that’s the uncertainty behind confidence, the hurt beneath composure, a concealable stigmatized identity that’s gotten you rejected before. Vulnerability is laying down your cards, and letting go of the results.
Vulnerability feels dangerous—because it is. In July, writer Ocean Vuong spoke about how his students often find vulnerability “cringe,” even as they ache for sincerity. We live in a culture of shame, a society that rewards irony and detachment, where we hide our true selves and move through the world guarded by mistrust. Yet, when we let our guard down, we find that even among seemingly dissimilar people there is shared experience, and our defenses soften. We feel flickers of ease, and belonging. That feeling is available far more often than we realize—you just have to put yourself out there.
Writing is the ultimate act of putting oneself out there. It demands resilience. To be a writer is to risk rejection—by editors, by readers, by peers. Every piece of writing is an act of exposure. Even if you remain your only reader, you will have to reckon with what you say. For memoirists especially, it can feel as if its not just our work being critiqued: it’s our very self on the line. And yet this is the work: claiming your right to take up space, to belong, and to be accepted as you are. Its doing the thing we assume others do easily—even and especially when it feels hard.
What we don’t realize is that everyone feels this way. I never would have imagined that Molly, my extremely extroverted daughter felt this way— until she told me she did. When we see people putting themselves out there—at a party, on a playground, on the page—we imagine they’re a different kind of person, someone immune to self-doubt. But they’re not. They’re just people who’ve learned to do the thing in spite of the fear. So if you want to do the thing, do the thing.
Some upcoming things to do:
This Fall, I’m gathering a couple small groups of dedicated writers to join me for a six-week master class in Shame-Resilient Writing. The Wednesday evening section is full but there’s ~ ONE SPOT LEFT ~ for Fridays, 12–2 PM EST starting November 7. Email melissa.petro@gmail.com to sign up!
Write Your Nonfiction Book in a Year: Complete Manuscript & Proposal Incubator with Melissa Petro starts on January 15th, 2026. More info here.
Writing for Shame Resilience returns to Esalen Institute this Spring! March 30- April 3, 2026, come write with me in beautiful Big Sur. Esalen & faculty-funded scholarships available! More info here
And as always, I continue to work one-on-one with highly motivated writers of all levels. Just shoot me an email for more information: melissa.petro@gmail.com.
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Melissa