I remember the exact moment I realized I was destined to love words. I was eight years old, sitting cross-legged on the old carpet of my family’s living room in suburban Salt Lake City, flipping through my parents’ well-worn King James Bible. I wasn’t exactly reading it—more like skimming for the cool-sounding bits, the "verily, verilys" and the occasional “begats.” But then I stumbled across a verse that stopped me cold. It was something about love and clanging cymbals, and for a reason I couldn’t explain, it hit me somewhere deep, like the gentle thud of a snowball to the chest on a winter morning.

Now, before you imagine me as some precocious child prodigy enchanted by scripture, let’s be clear—I was also equally obsessed with figuring out how to sneak extra Pop-Tarts past my mom and mastering the fine art of Mortal Kombat on the family’s ancient Sega Genesis. But still, that verse was a spark I couldn’t get rid of. Even then, there was something about the way words could shape emotions and meanings that stuck with me, a strange combination of magic and machinery. And that spark eventually grew into a passion that has shaped every part of my life.

Let me show you how it all came together—and, more importantly, why it matters to you.

Learning to Hear My Own Voice

Growing up in a traditional LDS household was like living in a symphony where everyone knows their part. My role in the family script involved weekly church attendance, overenthusiastic hymns belted out during Family Home Evening, and the kind of clean-cut morality where a PG-13 rating could cause minor scandal. Yet even in such an environment, there was room for questioning—not necessarily doubt, but curiosity.

When I wasn’t nose-deep in religious texts, I was outdoors. Being perched on a red rock cliff overlooking Arches National Park, scrawling words into a battered notebook while the sandstone glowed like fire—those were the moments that felt eternal. Nature was my muse. It rarely gave me answers, but it always seemed to encourage me to dig deeper.

Even so, loving words and writing didn’t come naturally at first. See, being raised where everyone encouraged you to be “nice” was both a gift and a barrier. Niceness often meant putting my own thoughts on mute so others could decide what was polite, proper, or productive. How do you truly fall in love with your passion when you’re so busy trying to stay agreeable?

The moment came during a high school English class that was supposed to teach us MLA formatting but ended up being my personal permission slip to get messy with language. My teacher dared me to write an essay not about what I thought others wanted to hear but about something that genuinely confounded me. I poured my frustration about those clean, impossible Mormon ideals into my first piece of honest prose—and let me tell you, that essay felt like ripping a bandage off healed skin. It didn’t hurt anymore; it just felt true.

Passion Is Like Dating—Sometimes Awkward, Always Worth It

In many ways, finding your passion is like fumbling your way through the early stages of a new crush. You don’t know what you’re doing, you second-guess yourself constantly, and there’s a significant amount of time spent Googling “is this normal??” I had plenty of that.

In college, my passion for writing blossomed while studying Religious Studies, a field where theology and culture collide in dazzling (and sometimes deeply frustrating) ways. I spent more hours than I care to admit writing papers that explored how spiritual scripts govern personal identity—and somewhere between the research binges and late-night over-caffeinated epiphanies, I realized my passion wasn’t just about stringing words together. It was about connecting people. It was about saying, “Here’s this weird feeling I’ve experienced; does it look anything like yours?”

But the reality is, passion doesn’t come easy. Falling in love with something—or someone—isn’t just about the sparks. It’s about the work. Have you ever had a crush on someone, gone on three dates, and realized they say “irregardless” unironically? Yeah, passion can be like that sometimes. Not every day of writing feels like an epiphany. Sometimes, it feels like wrestling your brain into typing even one serviceable sentence. But I stuck with it because I couldn’t imagine living without it.

My dating advice? Assume the same thing applies to passion. The magic doesn’t disappear after a few bad drafts—or bad dates. It just deepens into something richer, more meaningful.

What Keeps Me Going Today?

I’ll be honest: there are days when this whole writing gig feels like sending love letters into a vacuum. I worry about whether anything I’m putting out into the world is really resonating. But what brings me back every time is the way words keep surprising me.

Take the workshops I lead at the local cultural center. Here, I get to see all kinds of people—middle-aged moms, retired engineers, angsty teenagers—wrestle with their thoughts and memories, trying to turn them into something they can share. Watching them realize their experiences are worth documenting? That’s a feeling worth chasing, every time. It reminds me that whether we’re journaling in private or publishing personal essays to strangers online, the act of writing is an act of connection.

And let me tell you—those connections matter. In the same way that a thoughtful partner helps you see yourself more clearly, a commitment to pouring my passion into words helps me understand my own story and encourages others to reflect on theirs.

Tips on Finding and Falling for Your Passion

Now, you might be skimming this (trust me, I skim too—we all do), wondering, “That’s nice, Caleb, but what does this mean for ME?” Here’s what I’ve learned—and what might help anyone still searching for that spark:

  1. Don’t Wait for Perfection. Whether it’s a relationship or a passion project, waiting for “the right moment” is a convenient way to let fear win. Start small. Start messy. Just start.
  2. Be Curious, Not Judgmental. Your passion doesn’t have to look glamorous to matter. Maybe you love urban gardening or baking pies that would make Paul Hollywood gasp. Let yourself explore without overanalyzing.
  3. Fail Enthusiastically. Passion isn’t about nailing it every time. Some of my worst essays taught me the most. Date your ambition like you’d date a fellow human being—for who it can help you become, not for how flawless it looks on the surface.
  4. Let It Evolve. Just like relationships, passions grow. They go from butterflies-in-your-stomach excitement to something steadier, deeper, and ultimately so rewarding it’s worth the awkward phases.

Wrapping It All Up—and Wrapping You In Encouragement

Here’s the thing: falling in love with your passion (or your person) isn’t something you do just once. It’s a process that keeps happening, a practice that gets richer the more you show up for it.

For me, writing is no longer just about the high of stringing beautiful sentences together. It’s about connection—to myself, to the natural world, and to others. It’s about offering a language of understanding in a world that often feels too chaotic for words. And yes, it’s about letting those “clanging cymbals” echo one more time in the hopes they’ll land somewhere meaningful.

So whether you still feel a little lost or you’re already chasing your spark, remember this: passions are more forgiving than we think. The right one won’t pressure you to be perfect—it’ll invite you to keep playing, keep exploring, and keep growing. And that’s something worth falling for.