I was 16 when I learned that heartbreak could spark joy. Not in some masochistic, Timothée-Chalamet-staring-out-a-window-while-it-rains kind of way. No, I'm talking about the very first time I turned a crush gone wrong into lyrics that felt right. His name was Blake (of course it was—it’s always a Blake), and he was the kind of floppy-haired, guitar-playing guy you’re warned about in every Taylor Swift song. When Blake broke things off, handing me an “it’s not you, it’s me” speech that was so stunningly generic it could’ve been generated by ChatGPT, I didn’t cry. I wrote.
The lyric wasn’t genius or anything (“My heart’s unstrung, but my song’s begun”—okay, maybe a little cringe), but it lit something up in me. That night, I played it for my dad, a man who’s so practical he once turned down a spare-rib eating contest because the prize money didn’t justify the cholesterol spike. When I finished, he nodded slowly and said, “Yeah, there’s something there.” In Nashville, that’s basically a standing ovation.
That night was the first time I understood what creative joy felt like—that fluttery, electric sensation that maybe, just maybe, you’ve put something beautiful into the world.
The Tiny Joys Hidden in the Mess
Here’s the thing: most joy doesn’t show up wrapped in a neat little bow. It’s messy. It sneaks in when you’re in sweatpants eating cold pizza, sifting through the wreckage of something you swore would end differently. Relationships, like country music, thrive on chaos. And songwriting taught me that if you dig into that chaos, you’ll often find joy peeking out from under the rubble.
That lesson didn’t just apply to Blake or the parade of heartbreaks that followed him (looking at you, Kyle-who-“wasn’t-ready-for-a-relationship” but started dating my coworker three weeks later). It carried into every corner of my creative and personal life. It’s why I can wax poetic about the people you love but can’t seem to keep. It’s also why I genuinely believe we’re better off for the heartaches we survive—even if it takes a while to see it.
Finding Your Joy (Even if It’s Hiding at the Bottom of Ben & Jerry’s)
You don’t have to write a song to turn your next emotional dumpster fire into something meaningful (although, if you do, please rhyming-dictionary responsibly). Instead, here are three ways you can dive into the mess and uncover a little joy:
1. Turn Pain into Play
Joy doesn’t just happen. You have to coax it out like it’s your dog and you're holding a brand-new squeaky toy. After my semi-tragic Blake debacle, I started making joy-hunting a habit. A bad date didn’t mean failure; it meant story material. A ghosting incident wasn’t just terrible—it was my chance to try stand-up comedy…or at least make my friends laugh over margaritas. Turn annoyances into opportunities to find the humor or heart in them. (This also works for the gym—but only if you can laugh at yourself when you fall off the elliptical.)
2. Create First, Critique Later
One thing I learned early as a songwriter (and later, a serial doodler when creativity didn’t strike) is not to aim for perfect. Joy isn’t in results; it’s in the process. When I sat down to write Blake-inspired heartbreak ballads, I wasn’t Shakespeare; I was a girl with a guitar and a lot of feelings about how fedora-wearing boys should stick to indie folk covers. And that was enough. When you create for yourself first—whether it’s journaling, rearranging your houseplants, or baking banana bread—you give yourself permission to enjoy the act rather than obsess over the outcome.
3. Share Your Joy
Nothing amplifies joy quite like letting someone in on it. For me, that first moment, playing my song for my dad, was more affirming than anything. It didn’t matter that I probably sounded like a second-rate Kacey Musgraves; he saw me. If writing isn’t your thing, find your medium—whether it’s telling your best friend what you learned from a breakup, teaching your kid how to make your grandma’s secret biscuit recipe, or learning salsa dancing for fun, not finesse. When you share your passion, you’re not just finding your joy; you’re spreading it, too.
Joy as a Love Language (to Yourself)
Here’s what I know now that I didn’t when I scribbled that heartbreak song into my five-subject notebook: joy isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s a whisper in the middle of your mess, a reminder that even the worst moments can make way for something that will, someday, make you smile.
That night with my dad, I didn’t solve everything—I still had to see Blake in the school cafeteria the next day, smirking like he invented heartbreak—but I felt lighter. Joy had cracked the door, and I refused to let it close. Years later, joy still finds me in writing, whether it’s untangling the complexities of modern dating or trying to figure out why my cat has ghosted me in her own apartment (yes, Marigold, I know you’re under the couch).
So, to anyone who feels stuck in their heartbreak, lost in their creative rut, or unsure if they’ve got what it takes: start small. Forget the big picture for a minute. Chase the tiny moments that spark something in you. Let heartbreak fuel your art. Let loneliness teach you to love your own company. Let every flop remind you how you’re still standing. Joy is the love language you owe to yourself—and trust me, it’s worth the effort to learn how to speak it.
