The first time I felt joy doing this was in the middle of nowhere—literally. I was twenty-five, standing knee-deep in a marsh just outside Santa Barbara, wearing oversized waders that felt like a rubbery prison for my legs. My environmental consultancy gig had assigned me to survey a wetland restoration project. It was one of those early-career tasks that seemed mundane on the surface but came packaged with phrases like “You'll gain invaluable field experience!” and “This work truly matters.”
The truth, however, was that I wasn’t feeling terribly inspired. I was questioning life choices, swatting at mosquitoes the size of baseballs, and directly debating with myself why I hadn’t taken a cushy desk job like my friends in finance. I had no idea joy was about to hit me like an unexpectedly good plot twist in a rom-com.
The Unexpected Spark: Nature Meets Reflection
As I trudged deeper into the marsh, clipboard in hand and water sloshing around my thighs, the sky started to shift. You know how in movies, sunsets are often wildly overdone? Flaming clouds, golden hues, the whole Instagram-filter-on-overdrive situation. Turns out, that’s not very far from reality. Because as the day kissed the horizon goodbye, the light melted into the landscape—the reeds turned from dull brown to liquid gold, the water mirrored the sky’s soft pastels, and suddenly, I wasn’t just standing in soggy waders in a swamp. I was in a living Impressionist painting.
And then, somewhere in that moment, it hit me: this wasn’t just about cataloging water samples or tracing invasive plant species on a map. I was a dot in something far bigger than myself. A piece of something alive and dynamic, like the hidden rhythm of the wetland had synced with me. For the first time, what I was doing clicked with who I was—and brought me a strange, quiet joy.
It wasn’t fireworks joy. It wasn’t the frenetic, fist-pumping type of joy you get when your team wins the Superbowl or your DoorDash driver shows up ten minutes early. It was slower, softer. The kind of joy that feels like slipping into bed after a long day—contentment that settles into your bones and makes you pause.
Lessons from the Marsh: Finding (and Feeling) Your Element
So, here’s the thing about joy: it sneaks up on you. Joy isn’t always loud, and it rarely arrives on cue. And while my soggy epiphany in the middle of a marsh may not scream “relatable,” what I learned applies to, well, pretty much everyone. Especially when it comes to figuring out this big messy puzzle of life, passion, and who we’re really meant to be.
Here’s what that day taught me about chasing joy:
1. Joy Looks Weird at First.
When you’re starting out—whether in a new relationship, a fresh hobby, or an entry-level job—things often feel clumsy. You can’t spot joy when you’re focused on everything that feels awkward. It’s like a first date where you’re hyper-aware that you’re using the wrong fork for the salad. Stick with it. The magic is lurking in the discomfort.
2. Be Present Long Enough to Actually Feel It.
Full disclosure: if I’d quit early that day and headed back to the air-conditioned office, I might’ve never stumbled across that marshland magic. Joy asks that you hang around long enough to notice it. Stay in the muck—literally or metaphorically—and keep your eyes open.
3. Let Go of What You Think ‘It’ Should Be Like.
Raise your hand if you’ve ever fallen into the trap of imagining your job, relationship, or passion should look like an episode of “The Bachelor” or a Spielberg production? (Don’t worry, I’m raising mine too.) Here’s the thing: joy doesn’t care about your Instagram aesthetic. It’s not here to fit into a Snapchat story. It often lives in the gritty, unexpected spaces, when you forget to filter your expectations.
4. Joy Leaves Clues.
If you’re paying attention, those joy-filled moments leave hints about what you truly love. For me, crouching in uneven terrain reminded me of something my younger self adored—being barefoot on the beach, examining tide pools. There’s a connection between past and present joy; find those threads.
Applying Joy to Love (and Life)
Naturally, I couldn’t let this revelation stay contained in my professional world. What’s joy if you don’t let it spill, just a little, into how you live and love? I started to search for similar marshland moments in relationships. And you know what? It showed me how to stop overcomplicating things (shocking, right?).
For instance, dating in Los Angeles can often feel like one long, exhausting audition. By the third drink of the night, you’re knee-deep in the eternal “What’s your five-year plan?” chat while wondering if your tab is about to rival your rent. But when I stopped forcing moments and just sank into them, that natural joy had a funny way of bubbling up.
True connection—whether with people, passions, or places—tends to feel grounding. Instead of fixating on whether a relationship has “potential” or overanalyzing conversations like I’m decoding black-box flight data, I try to boil it down to the simple question: does this bring me closer to the same kind of peace I felt that day in the marsh?
How to Find Your Marsh Moment
OK, so maybe your spark won’t come in wetlands filled with endangered frogs or rainbow sunsets. Totally fair. But there are ways to let joy sneak up on you if you create that space for it. Try some of these:
- Step Outside Your Comfort Zone. Get uncomfortable! Whether it’s trying a new art class, exploring a different neighborhood, or saying “yes” to someone you wouldn’t usually date on paper—give it a go.
- Stop Micromanaging Your Joy. Life isn’t a three-course meal where joy shows up predictably. Sometimes it’s a free sample at Costco on a random Tuesday. Let joy be surprising.
- Tune Into the Small Stuff. The sound of waves. The first sip of coffee. Shared laughter over a dumb joke. Don’t dismiss these tiny blips of happiness—they’re breadcrumbs on the trail.
A Toast to Quiet Joy
The truth is, I didn’t leave the marsh that day with clear answers. I didn’t know yet that I’d leave environmental consulting for the world of writing. I wasn’t sure what my romantic destiny looked like, let alone what kinds of plants we were supposed to tag in that last marsh quadrant (details, right?). But I knew this: joy had planted itself like a wildflower in my chest, blooming in its own time.
So here’s to that kind of joy—the quiet, sneaky kind. The joy that feels like stumbling across a perfect beachside bakery or discovering someone who matches your stride on a sunset walk. It’s rarely dramatic, it almost never announces itself, but when it arrives? You’ll know. And it’ll be enough.
