I was standing in the middle of the kitchen when it hit me: pure joy. Not the casual kind you feel when you score a parking spot or when the weekend playlist hits its stride, but the kind that unfurls in your chest and fills you up completely. My hands were dusted in flour, a smear of guava paste streaked across my cheek. The aroma of butter and sugar baked together swirled in the air, and suddenly, without warning, I knew—this was it. I was making pastelitos.
If you grew up in a Cuban household, you already know: food isn’t just sustenance; it’s language, legacy, and unspoken love. But when my parents retired and closed our bakery—the heartbeat of my childhood—I didn’t immediately feel called to carry the torch. I respected the craft, sure, but I thought my passion lay elsewhere, trapped between book pages and half-finished paragraphs. Turns out, the magic happens where flour and words mix.
Joy in the Unexpected
Let me backtrack for a second. Making pastelitos wasn’t exactly my choice that day. It was the first Thanksgiving I’d volunteered to host, and my tía Yoli (bless her bluntness) had insisted, “¿Cómo que no vas a hacer pastelitos? Mijito, estás perdiendo la herencia.” Translation: “How could you not make pastelitos? You’re letting our heritage down.”
I’d promised her I’d figure it out. But as I waded into my 20th YouTube tutorial and realized my puff pastry skills were...meh at best, some doubts crept in. Would my botched attempt at this treasure of a recipe dishonor generations of Batista bakers before me? Would the ghosts of my ancestors roll their eyes every time my pastry dough cracked?
Spoiler: It wasn’t perfect, but it was perfectly mine. Somewhere between whisking eggs and rolling dough unevenly, I started laughing, smudges of guava clinging to the tip of my nose. I wasn’t comparing my effort to my parents’ mastery anymore. This was about me rediscovering the joy in honoring something I loved, whether or not it was Michelin-star-worthy. The first bite? Layered, buttery, sweet. A little lopsided, but I swore I’d never had a better pastelito.
The Connection Between Passion and Joy
Here’s what I’ve realized since that day, sugar still sticky on my palms: we often think joy strikes like a lightning bolt—a clear sign that whispers, “This is your thing.” But joy, real lasting joy, is subtle. It creeps in quietly when you least expect it, often while your hands are a little messy, or your mind is too preoccupied to overthink the moment.
For me, it wasn’t just the act of baking that filled me up. It was everything it represented: my family’s legacy, the smell of fresh pastelitos at 5 AM, and that sacred stillness before the chaos of opening a bakery door for customers who had become more like extended family. The same people who saw me grow up, watched me dream big, and vowed to remind me that you never forget where you came from.
But what does all this have to do with you? Here’s my point: sometimes the most sacred moments—whether you feel it in a first date glance, or something as simple as chopping onions together in the kitchen—are rooted in tradition. They’re small, a little quiet, but deeply transformative. Find those. Lean into them.
Tips for Finding Your Own Brand of Joy
Let’s get practical. You don’t have to bake to experience this kind of passion-fueled happiness (though, if you want my pastelito recipe, DM me—I got you). Here’s what I learned about tapping into joy, whatever your version of the guava-filled pastry moment may be:
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Get Messy:
I mean this literally and metaphorically. Joy doesn’t happen in neat, color-coordinated boxes. Try the thing you’ve been avoiding because you’re not “good at it,” whether it’s salsa dancing or learning to change a tire. Accept imperfections as part of the process. -
Call Your Inner Tía Yoli:
We all need that one brutally honest voice to challenge us. It might be a family member, a friend, or your journal if you’ve got to psych yourself up. Choose someone (or something) to remind you that comfort zones are a good place to rest but a terrible place to live. -
Involve Your People:
Maybe I’m biased because I grew up in a big, loud family where privacy meant closing one (but never all) of the blinds. But the beauty of joy lies in sharing it. Invite others in, whether it’s gathering friends for an impromptu cooking night or starting a new tradition of your own. -
Don’t Romanticize the “Perfect Moment”:
Joy doesn’t always look Instagram-ready. It’s messy cheeks, burnt edges, and learning curves you probably wouldn’t share online. Let go of unrealistic expectations, and instead focus on what feels good. -
Let Tradition Anchor You, Not Define You:
This one’s big. Tradition is a starting place, not a rulebook. Find ways to customize it to your life—and don’t feel guilty about it. You’re carrying history forward in a way that only you can.
Love is Also in the Pastry Layers
When I think about relationships—the backbone of why you’re probably reading this article—it’s kind of funny how similar they are to making pastelitos. To build something real, you need layers: trust, vulnerability, self-awareness, and a dash of humor when things inevitably fall apart. It won’t always be perfect (sometimes the guava leaks out), but it’ll still be worth sharing.
In relationships—or finding love in general—it’s the same principle. True connections aren’t polished or plastered with perfection. They’re sticky and layered. They remind you what’s worth savoring and stretch you into someone better. And if you let them, they teach you joy in the process.
Leaving You With This: Find Your Flour Hands Moment
So here’s my challenge, if you’re up for it: Find your “flour-dusted, guava-smeared” moment. Maybe it’s not baking. Maybe it’s finally signing up for that art class you’ve been Googling in secret or getting over your fear of karaoke. Whatever it looks like, let joy in through the back door—don’t wait for it to knock and introduce itself formally.
Because when the oven timer dings (or life hits pause just long enough for you to notice), you’ll realize one key thing: happiness isn’t about finding the perfect outcome. It’s about showing up, sleeves rolled up, ready to see where passion takes you. And, honestly? A little guava never hurts.
