write your truth even if people from high school see it

I am, more than anything, a creature of habit. My favorite song has been my favorite song since 2009; at a coffee shop, there’s an 80% chance I’m ordering a 12oz chai with oat milk (the other 20% is reserved for the occasional 12oz vanilla latte with oat); and when I’m stressed, there’s nothing I love more than getting high and watching Chopped. Friends I made in the late 2000s are still among my closest. I can’t bring myself to throw away any sentimental documents (see: my closet at my parents’ house filled with notes I passed to friends in the seventh grade).

Being a self-proclaimed archivist/historian/nostalgia-chaser means that I love to Remember Everything, simply for the love of the game. It doesn’t matter where the memory falls on the spectrum; I want to keep it close to me.

This proves to be a problem as a creative, especially as my career was built on my sharing these very vulnerable memories with not only strangers on the internet, but also everyone that I’ve ever known, ever.

If I were someone who a) didn’t care what others (family included) thought about me or b) couldn’t remember how every single person I’ve met has made me feel, it probably wouldn’t be an issue. But the older I get—and the more of myself I share through my work—the harder it becomes.

Recently, one of the friends I’ve had since the late 2000s stayed with me and Gerald in our tiny Seattle condo. It’d been a while since he and I had the chance to catch up in person, just the two of us. After Gerald went to bed, my friend and I got stoned, DoorDashed (and ravaged through) tikka masala, butter chicken, and naan, and stayed up until 4 a.m. reminiscing, laughing, watching Rick and Morty, and gossiping about everyone we knew in high school. Where are they now? Can you believe they did that? Did you know they have a kid? Divorced? Still single? Still perfect? Still someone I never want to see again?

At some point during the night—when we were halfway done combing through the pages of our senior yearbook—I asked him, “Do you think other people get together and gossip about us?” Without hesitation, he replied, “Absolutely.”

A lot (and I mean, a lot) of people message me each year asking:

When I first started sharing my writing (and my story) on the internet, I did so anonymously. I was blurrypoet on Instagram, where no one knew my name, my face, or anything about me.

Transparently, I was terrified to even think about the idea of my family or former friends knowing anything about my suicidality. Because I moved around a lot when I was growing up, the people I met during my teenage years were the only friends I had: I had no “hometown” or childhood best friends to see my continued growth. The people I met in seventh grade knew my happy, silly persona, and that persona was not on suicide watch after hoarding their Lexapro for months (aka, me), and that’s how I wanted them to see me.

Eventually, I began to get braver on my main accounts, vaguely posting about why we should care about suicide prevention or why we should de-stigmatize self-harm. It wasn’t until after I started performing at Austin Poetry Slam—where my face had to be attached to my poems—that I began to see the value of sharing my story, even if it felt wildly uncomfortable to do so.

It soon became second nature for me to talk about my experiences with suicide and self-injury on my accounts. My Instagram became a.b.cofer, and then, eventually, ari.b.cofer, where all I do is yap about mental health, suicide prevention, and the occasional sappy love post for my spouse or my friends.

But now, I find myself in the same spot I was in 2017, when I was only known as blurrypoet; I’ve become comfortable with people knowing only certain parts of me, and I am once again afraid of letting people know the other parts of me that feel shameful.

I’ll never stop writing about suicide prevention, because that is something that I am, and always will be, passionate about. But these days, I find myself wanting to talk more about my sexuality and experiences with sex. About money problems. About the experiences I had with people from high school after we grew up. I feel that same discomfort bubbling inside me, asking myself, what will people who knew me think about these things? How will I feel about them knowing? How can I be okay knowing that there are probably screenshots of something I wrote (or worse, a link to a Reel I made) in some family group chat? And while this fear is strong, I know it’s not a feeling unique to me or my creative experience.

I’ve discovered that my discomfort with sharing the more vulnerable parts of myself— as usual—is rooted in control, nostalgia, and the fear of being known. The person I presented myself to be when I was a teenager—both to my family and my friends—is wildly different than the person I am now. As a teenager who was suicidal, if the people who knew me back then get to know who I am now, that means that version of me never died like I wanted her to. And because I survived and changed, so will others’ opinions of me.

In No Complaints, Noah Kahan sings “in love with being noticed / and afraid of being seen,” and that’s just it. A lot of us want our work to be out there, acknowledged, shared, and loved, but don’t want the exposure that comes with it.

I’ve begun pushing myself to be uncomfortable—starting with posting videos of myself, reminding myself that it really Is Not A Big Deal if someone I knew 15 years ago (or if a family member) sees it. I will always share my mental health journey, but I want to start sharing more. I want to be noticed and seen, and I don’t want it to hurt. I want to write my truth and not give a damn who talks about it.

i have a poetry collection releasing in summer 2027! i’m beyond excited for this one! i’ve been working on it for years now; it eventually became my graduate school thesis, and has now found its final form (or will by January, when the final manuscript is due to my publisher). i’m so so so grateful to have an audience who loves to read my words and so grateful to have a publisher who believes in them. yay for collection #3!

Crossing the Line by E. Ethelbert Miller

recently on Instagram + TikTok, i’ve been doing a silly little series on the songs i listened to on repeat as a teenager that should’ve been a clear indicator that i had severe clinical depression. it’s been fun (concerning?) seeing how many people relate. i’ve made this playlist with all the songs i’ve included in my videos so far + plus some gems i’ve found in the comments. i’ll keep building this one out over time, but it’s been fun (again, concerning?) to revisit these songs that went triple platinum on my iPod nano (and iPod touch, when the time came).

all the love, all the warmth, all the light,

• i made a doc full of book recommendations for people who want to read more poetry but don’t know where to start!

• don’t forget to complete your one click today to support aid efforts in Palestine

• unfold: poetry + prose, is available on amazon, bookshop, indigo, b&n, or wherever you get books <3

• you can still buy paper girl from amazon, barnes & noble, indigo, or your local indie.

• i love you. and i see you. and i am so glad you're here.

  free and paid subscribers get the archive of essay reflections, poetry + music recommendations, and more — thank you for supporting the tender poets club <3

who i am: a writer, a lover, and a very Black + queer person. i love deeply, forget rarely, and spend most of my time cuddling with my dog, my cat, and my partner.

who i'm not: a therapist, mental health professional, or emergency service. i love hearing the stories of your experiences, but please don't send explicit or triggering details of your story without my prior consent.

if you're in crisis, please call 911 or use any of the following resources:

• National Suicide Prevention Hotline: 988

• National Domestic Violence Hotline: 1-800-799-SAFE (7233)

• Crisis Text Line: Text HELP to 741741

• S.A.F.E. (Self Abuse Finally Ends): 1-800-DONT-CUT (366-8288)

• Eating Disorders Awareness and Prevention: 1-800-931-2237

• RAINN (Rape, Abuse, & Incest National Network): 1-800-656-4673