Have you ever been smacked in the face by your passion—like, the kind of moment that stops you cold and whispers (or, in my case, hollers), “Hey, this is it! This is what makes you tick!”? For me, it wasn’t some grand unveiling with all the theatrics of a Nicholas Sparks novel; no lightning bolts or soft-focus montages. It happened while I was cleaning horse stalls.

Yes, horse stalls. Picture this: I’m 16, shovel in hand, sporting an unflattering mix of sweat and Wyoming dust, trying to make sense of the kind of romance only poets and country songs seem to get right. It had just occurred to me, mid-scoop, that maybe the girl I’d been awkwardly trying to charm all summer wasn’t charmed at all. In fact, she’d left a note that can only be described as a polite Dear John set to the backdrop of hay bales. Deflated and knee-deep in manure, I took refuge in the journal tucked in the pocket of my work pants.

It was there, in those scratched-out musings on heartbreak (read: melodramatic ranch poetry), that I found a version of myself that could turn chaos into clarity. Writing, as it turns out, was my way through the maze—whether it led to love, understanding, or plain-old joy-in-the-mud. Over time, I came to realize the way storytelling allows for not just processing emotions, but giving them purpose. And that transformed everything.

The Moment It Clicked

You know the feeling when something just makes sense for the first time? Like cracking a knuckle that’s been stiff forever? It was a few months after the horse-stall revelation when my high school English teacher handed back an essay I’d written about cowboy lore with three gloriously underlined words: “Keep doing this.”

If writing about heartbreak had opened the door, writing about the rhythm of life carved into a Wyoming landscape shoved me through it. Enveloped by long walks under Montane skies and encounters with quirky tourists asking for selfies with bison (quick PSA: please don’t do that), I realized storytelling wasn’t just about venting or recounting; it was about understanding. It was emotional archaeology—digging into myself, my surroundings, and the folks who wandered through my world, and piecing it all together into something meaningful.

Why Passion and Joy Deserve a Second Date

Here’s the thing about joy: it doesn’t arrive ringing bells. It sort of sneaks up on you while you’re in the middle of life. And sometimes, it doesn’t look the way you expect it to. For me, passion wasn’t born in a Hollywood-worthy movie montage where I suddenly awaken some dormant creative genius; it came like random trail markers nudging me along the way.

Learning to love what lights you up requires patience. To figure it out, I fumbled with these three principles:

  1. Treat your passion like an awkward first date.
    Not sure if it’s your thing? Try it anyway. Take it to dinner. Order dessert. (Metaphorically speaking, of course.) For me, that meant spending extra time journaling, even when I sometimes guessed I was just howling into the void. Eventually, I realized those scrawled notes kept me grounded and happy.

  2. Get comfortable with not being “good” right away.
    You’re not supposed to nail it from the start. (If you do, congrats—but the rest of us hate you just a little.) When I wrote my first article for that outdoor magazine, I thought I was channeling Hemingway reincarnated. Nope. The words limped along awkwardly. But after edits and rewrites, I saw glimpses of the joy that came with improving and came back hungrier to try again.

  3. Let your passion evolve with you.
    Here’s a weird truth: what brought me joy at 16 doesn’t look the same at 30—and that’s okay. Back then, writing felt like a lifeline; now, it’s a compass. It’s evolved from secret journal entries to stories about wildlife, people, and relationships (which, let’s face it, have just as many tangled emotions as grizzly bear sightings).

Where Passions and Relationships Cross Trails

Dating and passion have more in common than we realize. Both require vulnerability—a willingness to throw yourself in and risk looking ridiculous, fumbling through trial and error. Relationships come alive when nurtured, just like a fledgling hobby. Whether it’s learning to trust a new partner or trying your hand at sketching, joy grows in ordinary, messy moments. And much like my eventual success in winning over dates (or, at least, fewer failed trail-edge conversations with tourists recognizing my untied shoelaces), I found that the stumbling blocks were actually stepping stones.

Takeaway? Flirting with what excites you—be it a sketchpad, a keyboard, or an actual person—is well worth the effort.

Joy Sneaks In When You Stop Controlling the Narrative

I didn’t take much stock in “just let go” advice when I was younger. Sounds poetic in theory but wildly impractical when you’ve got a head full of dreams, a shovel full of horse poop, and a teenage crisis screaming for attention. Still, I’ve learned to make peace with ditching some of the “how it should be” scripts.

The first time I joined a writing workshop at college, I thought I had it all figured out—I’d write about the West, toss in a few Hemingway vibes for good measure, and everyone would pat me on the back for my brilliance. Spoiler alert: they politely tore my work to shreds. Some folks didn’t “get” the cowboy stuff; others wanted more heart, less scenery.

What I learned from that first critique session is that creativity and connection don’t have to look like perfection. They’re allowed to be rugged, raw, even hilariously imperfect (much like my early dating history). When I finally stopped trying to control every story’s trajectory—just like when I started to loosen up in relationships—the joy swooped in, unannounced and wonderful.

Saddle Up for What Lights You Up

Here’s my advice, whether you’re searching for a soulmate or trying to decode your passions: saddle up, even if the trail’s uncertain. The joy of discovery lies in embracing the process, no matter how many times you think you’re stumbling. Write the bad poems, take the awkward photos, and mess up your horse trails along the way. Grace, much like love and creativity, doesn’t arrive on a perfect schedule—it grows where you least expect it.

The first time I felt joy in my writing wasn’t monumental—but it was true. And true joy, as I’ve come to learn, doesn’t come in fireworks. It’s quieter than that, tucked into the moments where you find yourself truly connected—to a person, a place, or even just the scratch of your pen telling you it’s all going to make sense eventually.

So, in case you need it, this is your nudge: go flirt with joy. Take it out on a date (awkward mishaps included), and see where it leads. You never know—it could start in a horse stall and end in a story worth sharing.