The first time I felt joy doing “this” was on an evening so quiet it felt like the world had collectively exhaled. The summer clouds were low and pink, the kind that made me feel like the universe was holding a private showing of its beauty, just for me. I’d parked myself on a boulder not far from my childhood home on the Navajo reservation, notebook in hand. Only instead of attempting another “To-Do” list or sketching bad horses on lined paper (why are horse legs so hard, though?), I started writing down a story that had been floating around in my head for days. A story without a plan—just words that felt alive.

That boulder and I became old friends over the years, but it wasn’t until that moment that I realized how happy storytelling made me. It wasn’t writing for a grade or an agenda or to meet someone else’s expectations. It was writing for me, letting my thoughts play in plain view. And it hit me—I mean really hit me—how much joy there was in doing something simply because I loved it. It wasn't joy like "It's Friday and I found my favorite chips on sale." It was more like "I'm here, I’m alive, and oh my goodness, this just fits."

Unpacking Joy: It’s Not Always Obvious

Let’s get one thing straight: Joy doesn’t always arrive like a neon sign flashing “YOU LOVE THIS.” It’s sneaky. In my case, it was months—years, honestly—before I connected the dots between that summer boulder session and my future passion for storytelling. When I first went to college, my plan was solid: study anthropology, build bridges (figurative ones, people), and advocate for causes bigger than myself. It felt noble, and it was noble.

But no one warns you that sometimes noble doesn’t equal fulfilling. I liked what I was doing, but moments of genuine, uncontained joy didn’t exactly come knocking. It was my free time—writing poems, zipping off short stories about stolen sheep that turned out to be alien pets, and sketching scenes in journals—that kept my heart tender. I didn’t realize at the time that my passion was hiding in plain sight, waving at me like someone desperate for a cab in New York traffic.

So, let me be your flashing neon sign today: Joy doesn’t always scream. Sometimes it whispers, shows up disguised as a hobby, or lives quietly in the cracks of a routine you thought was there just to pass time.

Finding Your “Boulder Moment”

If you’re thinking, “Great, Tiana, but how do I find my joy?” let me stop you right there. This isn’t about creating a spreadsheet or following a how-to guide (though, hey, if spreadsheets spark joy, you do you). It’s about paying attention. Here are a few ways you can spot your own version of a boulder moment:

1. Zone Out Without Guilt

Think about when time melts. What are you doing when hours pass without a single glance at the clock? Maybe you’re watercoloring tiny landscapes, one awkward tree at a time. Maybe you’re deep in conversation with your grandma, cataloging her best dining table gossip. Whatever it is, take note of when the world shrinks and all you feel is focus and flow.

2. Track Your Smiles

It’s simple, but it works. What made you smile today in a way you couldn’t smother if you tried? Write it down, even if it seems silly ("Thought about dancing with my dog and couldn’t stop grinning"). Patterns pop up quickly when you start paying attention, and joy isn't shy about leaving clues.

3. Reimagine “Productive”

We’re all guilty of measuring productivity with checklists. But sometimes joy isn’t about measurable outcomes. My boulder writing session didn’t result in anything I’d call useful. But if you zoom out, it gave me a glimpse of something I’d end up building a career on. Stop asking, “Is this useful?” Start asking, “Is this useful to me?” There’s a difference.

Joy as a Navigator in Love (And Life)

Interestingly enough, the way I first discovered joy in storytelling taught me something crucial about love and relationships, too. When I met someone I really clicked with—my now-partner, who uses euphemisms like “biscuit brain” (don’t ask), and once taught me to two-step on a dirt road—there was this undercurrent of contentment that felt terrifyingly familiar.

And I’ve realized that the same "click" I felt on that boulder is a great guide for deepening connection. Real love, much like joy, doesn’t always kick down the door. It sneaks in through moments of soft laughter. It sits beside you when you’re quietly enjoying the same sunrise. It grows when you’re content just existing together—no dramatic fireworks or grand overtures required. The secret to recognizing joy in dating—or anything else, for that matter—is to stop waiting for giant, movie-style moments and start noticing the quiet ones instead.

So, maybe ask yourself: Does being around this person feel like a sigh of relief? Do they make boring days seem a little brighter? Does it feel good to be unapologetically yourself with them—and maybe a little “biscuit-brained” too? Because joy in love isn’t necessarily about being swept completely off your feet; it’s about finding someone who offers stability while quietly lighting up your world.

The Power of Doing Things Just For You

And here’s what most people don’t say about joy: It changes your relationship with yourself straight away. Looking back, I realize that writing for the simple fun of it changed the way I treated myself. It taught me to listen, to notice when my body and mind were trying to tell me something, and to embrace those small urges saying, This matters.

So, why not set aside 20 minutes this week to let yourself indulge in something that brings you joy? Read that mystery novel for no reason except that you find the detective charmingly chaotic. Dance barefoot to powwow drums (or Harry Styles—your call). Draw a terrible horse with lumpy legs and call it modern art.

The point is to let go of all the noise about end results and sit with what sets your soul on fire. Because one tiny spark of joy is usually where the greatest things begin.

Parting Thoughts: Embrace the Whisper

Life takes on new meaning when you embrace the whispers instead of waiting for the shouts. That evening on the boulder taught me that some paths don’t unfold in a straight line—and they shouldn’t. If joy starts quietly, listen closer. Go toward whatever it is that makes you feel light, unburdened, and whole. Because the small things we love often hold the biggest revelations about who we are.

So, what’s your “boulder moment”? Grab a pen or lace up your shoes, trust yourself, and find out. Your joy is waiting.