So this is my last column of the year. Tragic, I know.

I wasn’t sure what to write about until I went to a certain concert on Sunday night. The experience got me thinkin’, as most things tend to do. And you, the readers, get to reap the long-winded and sentimental harvest of the self-involved sowing of these existentialist seeds.

Because it was a small university show, the artist played never-before-attempted songs and faltered several times. He’s a talented musician and a charming performer, and the show was wonderful.

Obviously, I enjoyed the event, but for the first time I was struck not by the music itself but the vulnerability of the artist. He was standing in front of a hall of strangers, pouring his heart out for anyone and everyone to hear. Not only that, he was also willing to hit the wrong note or forget lyrics in front of a gathering people who came to see him at his best.

I’ve heard a lot of live music, read a lot of literature and perused galleries like it’s my job. But this time I was really taken with the courage required to slice yourself open in hopes that someone will hear what you’re saying and at the very least understand the message.

I guess his reward is that someone not only understands but also identifies with and is moved by his message. I only can imagine the kind of affirmation that comes from hundreds or thousands of people applauding your creativity.

So what about everyday life? What about expressing yourself when necessary without regard to the consequence of lost pride? I watched this guy wailing over piano keys without a visible hint of hesitation and felt foolish for shutting up all those times that I had something to say.

I can’t estimate how often I’ve asked myself, “What was I thinking?” But have I ever actually regretted my actions? Not a bit.

Because truly, what’s the worst that could happen? As “that girl” who severely injured herself while doing the limbo at senior prom, I can personally assert that embarrassment dissipates long before regret does. I may have spent the rest of the night with ice on my knee and a drink in my hand, but I went down swinging. Literally.

In more serious situations involving principles, self-respect and all that jazz, that courage to speak is precious. When the result is less than harmonious, things can get uncomfortable and gritty.

But I guess it comes down to the fact that I don’t want to go quietly. None of us should. If we’re going to risk credibility and bruise our egos, we should go out with our voices hoarse and our curiosity satisfied. It might be reckless and stupid, but it is, above all, honest. It can’t be any other way.

This column has been brought to you by the letter S, for shameless self-reflection.

Peace out, guys. See you in the fall.