The First Time I Felt Joy Doing This

A Moment Beneath the Pines
There’s this moment that sticks with me. I was 24, standing ankle-deep in a meadow overflowing with wildflowers, their petals catching the last rays of sunlight filtering through the lodgepole pines. A crisp breeze carried the scent of pine needles and warm earth, and somewhere in the distance, a river murmured its way downstream. I was holding a weathered notebook in one hand, a pen in the other, documenting a trail restoration project for the nonprofit where I worked. But before I jotted down another plant description or drew another sketch of an eroded slope, I paused. Something stirred inside me, catching me completely off-guard.

For the first time in my adult life, I realized I wasn’t just doing something because it was “right” or “necessary.” I was doing it because I loved it. It wasn’t the technical work itself—I wouldn’t exactly call repairing trails thrilling. It was the act of observing the world intimately and putting it into words. I was finally doing something that made me feel alive. And here’s the kicker: I didn’t even know I’d been searching for that happiness.

When Passion Creeps Up on You
Here’s the thing no one warns you about when it comes to passions: You rarely discover them in a deliberate, capital-M “Moment.” Forget the grand Hollywood montages with inspirational music swelling in the background—passions sneak up on you like a slow sunrise, subtle and warm. For me, joy clicked into place like a camera lens slowly coming into focus, starting with that stolen moment in the meadow.

Growing up, I didn’t think of writing as something you could build your life around. My parents, wonderful as they were, were more likely to ask if I’d checked the local recycling center for spare notebooks before buying new ones than to encourage lofty creative ambitions. I wrote casually—song lyrics on the back of class handouts, half-poems scrawled on trail maps—but it wasn’t until that meadow moment that I connected writing to joy and purpose.

For anyone still waiting for that click, here’s what I’ve learned:

  • Your passion might hide in plain sight. It could be something you’re already doing, like tending to your sourdough starter or reorganizing your roommate’s vinyl collection for fun.
  • Don’t force it. The more you try to “find” a passion as if it’s a soulmate on a scavenger hunt, the more elusive it feels. Instead, pay attention to what tasks leave you feeling quietly fulfilled.
  • Passion and skills don’t always arrive as a package deal. Trust me. My early writing sounded like a nature documentary fell asleep during a journal entry. But passion gives you permission to grow in your craft.

The Joy of Getting Sweaty in Relationships
Now, you might be asking what a guy like me, knee-deep in wildflowers and metaphors, could possibly teach you about relationships. Well, here’s where things get relatable. Discovering a passion is a lot like falling in love—awkward, uncertain, and occasionally riddled with questionable choices. Once I started taking my writing seriously, I also started reconsidering what I wanted out of my connections with others.

Take my first real relationship out of college, for example. She was the kind of person who could spot constellations without a star chart and owned enough Patagonia fleeces to open a boutique. On paper, we worked. In reality, not so much. She was pragmatic where I was idealistic. I didn’t realize it then, but falling harder in love with my writing was showing me what I needed in love itself—someone who would understand my infatuation with late-night scribbles and the occasional need to disappear into nature.

Relationships require their own brand of sweaty, unglamorous effort:
- Communicate what drives you. When I finally admitted how much joy writing brought me, I learned to stop apologizing for it—and surprisingly, it made me more authentic in relationships.
- Find someone who nourishes your weird. The right partner won’t just “put up” with your quirks—they’ll celebrate them. (Bonus points if they bring snacks while you’re mid-project.)
- Be willing to let go. Letting go of that relationship wasn’t easy, but it led me to the real joy of being with someone who shared my rhythm.

From Wild Meadows to the Everyday
It’s tempting to think joy only lives in peak experiences—breathtaking meadows, weekend retreats, or, I don’t know, that one magical first kiss under fairy lights. But here’s a little secret: joy thrives most when you make room for it in the everyday. Finding joy in my writing taught me to lean into the small, seemingly insignificant moments that shape a life, whether that’s brewing my morning coffee or stealing a quiet minute to stare at clouds during a lunch break.

Joy isn’t picky about where it grows. You just have to give it a little light and space, like wildflowers finding cracks in the pavement.

So if you’re still searching for the thing that lights you up—or wondering if it’s okay to chase something that already does—do it. Chase messy passion over polished perfection. Chase quiet joys no one else understands. Chase the kind of happiness that sneaks up on you, one word and one wilderness-packed second at a time.

The Takeaway: Joy Is on Your Trailhead
Look, if my tree-hugging, pen-wielding self can find joy beneath the whirr of beetles and the rhythm of a pen scribbling on recycled paper, you can too. Whether your passion shows up while you’re fixing your bike, hosting karaoke night, or geeking out over heirloom tomatoes, it matters less how you find it and more that you let it in.

Because the best journeys—the ones that guide you to what matters—don’t come with a map. They're stumbled upon, carried forward by curiosity and a willingness to listen closely, whether to the voice inside or the wind combing through the trees. And who knows? Your meadow moment might be closer than you think.