It started on a random Tuesday night, the kind of evening Beverly Hills likes to dress in a cool breeze and a soft golden hue, as if the universe itself had hired an Oscar-winning cinematographer. My parents were hosting a dinner party (read: semi-chaotic producer summit disguised as charcuterie and small talk), and I was tasked, as the youngest in the room, with providing entertainment. No, not in some child-prodigy-Mozart way. They needed a buffer—a distraction from Larry's complaints about streaming margins and Sandra's obsession with her Himalayan salt-rock lamp.

So, there I was, armed with a blank notebook, the kind my dad would buy in bulk for “brainstorming” sessions that often wound up as coasters for post-dinner cognac. I sat down at the marble kitchen island and just… started writing. Fiction, mostly. Nothing groundbreaking. A little girl living among the Hollywood hills gets lost in a world where palm trees talk and movie stars turn into actual stars at sunset. Somewhere between the second and third paragraph, my hand started moving faster than my thoughts. Larry became a palm tree. Sandra turned into the villain. And me? I was no longer the awkward kid trying to fill the room with the right kind of silence—I was somewhere else entirely.

It wasn’t until my mom placed a bowl of rugelach next to me (her universal way of saying, “I see you, I love you, but also eat something”) that I looked up and realized I’d been at it for two hours.

That night marked the first time I felt what I can only describe as sheer, unfiltered joy doing this writing thing.

The Moment Joy Found Me (and Why I Almost Ignored It)

Here's the thing about moments like this: they're sneaky. Joy doesn’t show up with jazz hands and confetti every time. Often, it’s subtle, lurking in the corners of your life, waiting for you to notice. For me, I almost overlooked it entirely, believing that “real joy” had to look like walking a red carpet or sharing a meme that gets 10,000 likes. Spoiler: It doesn’t. Sometimes, it feels more like slipping into a familiar sweater—not overly dramatic, but just right.

I think part of the reason it caught me off guard was that I grew up in a world where success is shiny, ambitious, and usually measured in dollar signs or premiere invites. If it wasn’t on a social feed, did it matter? But those quiet moments—the ones where I was hunched over that UCLA screenwriting assignment or furiously scribbling a short story on my lunch break—started forming a pattern.

If you’re anything like me, perpetually balancing the expectations of others with the occasional existential crisis fueled by oat milk lattes and Lana Del Rey lyrics, here’s what you need to know: Passion doesn’t always roar. Sometimes it whispers, nudging you to pay attention.

What Writing Taught Me About Love (Yes, This is About Dating Too)

Fast forward a few years, and my passion for storytelling became more than a party trick. It became a profession—or rather, a calling I tried really hard to downplay because “LA screenwriting career” sounds like a punchline until you make it. Writing has a funny way of teaching you about relationships too.

For instance, drafting a screenplay? It’s not unlike dating:

  • The Opening Scene (aka First Dates): You’re trying to make a good impression, grab attention, and hope the other person doesn’t delete your number or call your story “predictable.”
  • The Messy Middle (aka When Texts Get Overanalyzed): Just like crafting Act Two, this is where overthinking happens. Are they pulling away, or is their phone just on silent? Does this subplot add depth, or am I spiraling?
  • The Climax (aka Defining the Relationship): Here’s where stakes feel sky-high—and so does your fear of rejection. Will they commit? Will your plot stick the landing? You’ll only know when you get there.

Writing makes you hyper-aware of storytelling’s universal truths: every great connection, whether it’s with a reader or a romantic partner, requires vulnerability, intention, and the willingness to embrace the occasional plot twist.

How to Recognize (and Lean Into) Your Joy Moments

Maybe your version of joy isn’t writing. Perhaps it’s organizing home closets like Marie Kondo on a bender or cooking elaborate meals straight out of “MasterChef,” all while pretending Gordon Ramsay isn’t yelling at you in your head. That’s the beauty of joy—it’s deeply specific, wildly personal, and occasionally impractical. But figuring out where it lives in your life? That’s magic. Here are three ways to find it:

  1. Notice What You Lose Yourself In: If time melts away and you forget to check Instagram (gasp!), you’re on the right path. For me, writing was the ultimate time-suck in the best way.

  2. Follow the Emotional Breadcrumbs: Joy isn’t always big and loud—it can also be quiet contentment. At that marble kitchen island, my happiest clue was the calm I felt amidst the chaos of L.A.’s loudest dinner guests.

  3. Reject the Productivity Complex: Your passion doesn’t have to unlock a new income stream or start as some grand ambition. Sometimes, joy is just joy. All it asks is that you show up.

Cue the Credits, But Not the End

It’s funny, isn’t it? How a single Tuesday night in Beverly Hills turned into this. Sure, my first full-length screenplay never got picked up (plot twist: turns out, a rom-com about tax auditors isn’t exactly box office gold). But that doesn’t matter. Writing rewired the way I connect—with others and with myself.

Now, whether I’m diving into an article for This Publication or working on another quirky short story about love, I lean into that same joy I discovered at 14. It’s my compass, a kind of internal Shabbat candle that gives light to everything I do.

The real plot twist, though? You don’t need a red velvet carpet or a perfect Hollywood ending to experience it. Joy can hit you anywhere—an evening in your kitchen, a first date in Silver Lake that surprises you, or even at 2 a.m. when an idea strikes, and you scramble to jot it down on a Post-it note.

Your passion is yours to find, yours to keep, and, like the Hollywood skyline at dusk, more beautiful when you let it quietly unfold. Trust me—you’ll know it when you feel it. So, what’s stopping you? Start paying attention. The rest is just editing.