I can trace the roots of my passion back to the dinner table in my parents’ small, sunlit kitchen, where every other night felt like a United Nations summit. My dad, clad in a paint-splattered t-shirt after his construction gigs, would kickstart debates about everything from Jamaican independence to D.C. politics. My mom, who could thread a lecture on West Indies history through a warning about curfew, had this gift for turning every conversation into a lesson you didn’t even know you needed. My siblings and I soaked it all in—half-joking, half-serious, full-volume conversations as the aroma of curry goat mixed with the baseline thrum of reggae in the background. These were my earliest classroom lectures on the power of storytelling and the magic of connecting through words.
But let me back up for a second. Falling in love with anything—whether it’s a person, a passion, or that new restaurant with the killer jerk chicken—is rarely a linear process. For me, finding my passion wasn’t quite as poetic as a rom-com montage where the protagonist magically “finds their thing.” Nope. It was more like one of those awkward first dates where you’re not sure this is the right fit, but you’re curious enough to see where it might go.
The First Spark: Hinting at What Drives You
The first time I felt truly alive writing something was in high school. It was a class essay on James Baldwin’s Go Tell It on the Mountain. I’ll admit, stress-writing it at midnight on my mom’s ancient desktop while battling the pop-up ads of LimeWire didn’t feel romantic in the moment. But when my teacher handed it back with a scribbled, “You should consider writing as a career,” something deep clicked. Maybe it was ego; maybe it was validation. But mostly, it was revelation. Baldwin’s words about faith, race, and humanity spoke to me. Writing became like that charming but mysterious date who leaves you wanting more.
Fast-forward to college at Georgetown, where the passion deepened. While most of my peers gravitated toward internships with companies that promised six-figure incomes, I found myself clinging to stories—the ones hidden in textbooks about systemic inequality and the ones tucked into whispered conversations at the back of D.C. coffee shops. I’d write essays, articles, and occasional spoken-word pieces everyone insisted I share at open mics. My roommates would joke that my brain was a Rolodex of opinions and weirdly specific references, and maybe they weren’t wrong. My passion for storytelling became something undeniable—it felt like I had a responsibility to reflect both what I saw and what so many people didn’t get the chance to say.
The Honeymoon Phase: Falling Hard for What You Love
When I got my first job drafting speeches on Capitol Hill, I thought I was living my dream. Who wouldn’t want to play Cyrano de Bergerac for elected officials? (Okay, maybe only political nerds like me.) I was crafting talking points for people in power, the ones who could fund schools and change laws with a swipe of their pen. It felt intoxicating at first—proof that words could shove a door open in places I’d only dreamed about.
But then the shine wore off. If the honeymoon phase is sweet, the reality check is like realizing your crush chews with their mouth open. Slowly, I came to see that not every speech or memo had the heart I’d hoped to inject. It became clear that in politics, narratives were often disconnected from the people they claimed to represent. Around the same time, my personal life mirrored my professional one: dating felt performative too, like I was auditioning for connections that didn’t really fit who I was.
One day, after a demoralizing meeting, I walked past a D.C. street performer playing go-go music. The drumbeat pulled me in, grounding me in my roots. These rhythms weren’t perfect, yet they were alive, raw, genuine—and I realized I craved the same in my work. Authenticity. I wanted my words to honor the folks at kitchen tables around the country, like the one I grew up at. Storytelling wasn’t just my job; it was my heart.
Crises and Comebacks: Falling Out (and Back In) With Your Passion
Look, I won’t act like it’s always been happily ever after. There were years when writing—my so-called passion—felt like an overbearing partner. There were long nights where I’d stare at my laptop, wondering if my words even mattered. Writing a novel? It's like a relationship that refuses to define itself. Some days, you’re in perfect harmony. Other days, it’s all unanswered text messages and missed signals.
Even now, there are moments I’ve doubted whether forging a career out of stories—a mix of passion, politics, and prose—was wise. Pop culture doesn’t exactly help, does it? Society glorifies passion like it’s this glowing neon sign you follow, leading straight to eternal fulfillment. But honestly? Passions can be demanding, messy, frustrating—like dating someone whose idea of love is making you binge-watch all ten seasons of Friends without a break.
But what I’ve learned is this: You can’t fall in love with something without also accepting its flaws. Writing asks a lot of me, but it gives even more back. It’s the way I sift through joy, pain, and understanding. It’s the chance I get every day to connect with loved ones, strangers, and—maybe most importantly—myself.
Practice Makes Passion: Turning Love Into Purpose
If you’re reading this wondering whether it’s too late to find your passion or reignite one you’ve left behind, let me tell you what my mom always told me when I was sulking after losing a middle school debate tournament: Just start small, Marcus.
Turns out, she was right. Whether you’re nurturing a new passion or reigniting it, you don’t need grand gestures. You just need to do the thing—consistently, imperfectly, purposefully:
- Make time. Too busy? Start with 10 minutes, three times a week. Small steps add up.
- Stay inspired. Read books, watch inspiring documentaries, or listen to folks who’ve walked a path you admire. Surrounding yourself with dreamers keeps your own heart buzzing.
- Channel your culture. For me, this meant reconnecting with the stories of my Jamaican ancestry—finding rhythms that spoke to my truth. For you? It might mean leaning into personal history or something totally new.
- Celebrate process, not just results. Like any relationship, passion requires work. If you chase perfection instead of progress, you’ll burn out.
When you nurture your passion with intention and patience, it evolves into something stronger—a purpose. For me, that purpose is weaving voices like mine and yours into the larger narrative. I’ve learned that you don’t just write to create stories or escape life’s mess. You write—or dance or teach or sing—because it’s the most honest way you know how to show up for the world.
Closing the Circle: Love That Lasts
Funny thing about passion is that it mirrors love. It bends, twists, and doubles back on itself. Some days, it’s easy; other days, it demands everything. But when you stick with it—nurture it the way my mom used to tend her plants in our apartment windowsill—it transforms into something lasting.
Passion, like love, is rarely about perfection. It’s about persistence. It’s coming back to journal pages after an exhausting week or perfecting your oxtail recipe to remind yourself why food became your love language. It’s showing up even on the tough days. It’s remembering no honest passion or love stories were ever built on convenience.
Your passion will test you, teach you, and keep you coming back. And when you commit to it? Believe me, it’ll love you right back.
