Jeez, I feel all tender about each little plunk of the keyboard as I write this final column.
It was seven years ago that The Tribune leadership decided to do a little unraveling of the homogeneity within the paper’s opinion writers by adding me into The Mix. I imagine them thinking my column would attract younger, queerer, spiritually diverse readers. (Ha, bless everyone’s hearts, I think my sweet spot turned out to be the well-seasoned female-identified demo — hi, queens!).
Despite feeling woefully underqualified, I decided to do it, to write, because I knew the value of our less-commonly told stories getting to see the light of day. (I think it might be our hot ticket to mass understanding and kindness.)
Saying “yes” was me leaning back, putting my foot on my other leg with my hands behind my head. Taking up space. Terrified, but determined.
To muddle through the imposter syndrome, I pictured my stories empowering the former, lonely versions of myself who hadn’t seen people like me reflected much in the media. I pushed through doubt with an altruistic spirit. I would do this for the kids and the underrepresented weirdos of the world.
Little did I know, I’d be the one walking away changed. Well, wheeling away changed, as it turns out, but wheeling with the vigor of a more satisfied, sure person.
Someone asked me once why I share such personal stories with the general public (legit question). I actually got the sense my vulnerability had caused them second-hand embarrassment — their shame on my behalf.
My truth is, I think I had finally waited long enough to forgive myself for being me. If I unzipped myself for all to see, I wouldn’t have to hide or pretend. You’d love me or not, but the question wouldn’t hang unanswered. The freedom shifted gravity and lifted the weight from my shoulders.
Yet every time I cracked myself open and vibrated in worry about the response, a friend or stranger would reach out with love and understanding. Without. Fail.
And sometimes people would write with serious displeasure that my silly perspective was deemed worthy of the ink it took to publish. (Bruh, I know, right?)
Turns out that all those connections, kind and otherwise, made me feel like what I was doing was important. Like my contribution had an impact.
Writing has been my exhale. It’s the place I’ve gone after taking in the world to expel that which didn’t suit me any longer.
And the space created by my letting go was filled with your curiosity, your care, your love and even your disagreement. I accepted it all (wellllll, most of it) with gratitude.
I look forward to joining you as a dedicated reader of this important local paper, and I’ll be on the lookout for the next way I’ll share my secrets with you.
Thank you for seeing me.
Marina Gomberg is a professional communicator, a practicing optimist and a lover of love. She lives in Salt Lake City with her wife, Elenor Gomberg, their son, Harvey, and their dogs, Mr. Noodle and Gorgonzola. You can reach Marina at mgomberg@sltrib.com, or marinagomberg@gmail.com after Jan. 1.
