Have you ever had one of those moments where your reflection in the mirror feels different—not because of a new outfit or fresh hairdo, but because something deep inside you has shifted? That happened to me the first time I realized writing could feel like joy. Not just fleeting happiness but heart-thumping, “this is it” kind of joy. It took me completely by surprise, which is strange because I’d always been the storyteller in my family. I could spin an exam mishap into an epic tragedy worthy of Nollywood or retell a quick errand as a near-comedy skit. But this moment was different—it felt transformative. Let me take you there.

From Lecture Notes to Life Notes

Picture this: I’m 20 years old, sitting in the sweltering heat of a Lagos classroom. My sociology professor was lecturing on the dynamics of interpersonal relationships in urban spaces. I know, thrilling stuff, right? As she droned on about migration patterns and social stratification, my pen drifted across the page, not taking notes but instead doodling words: “Connection. Belonging.” Somewhere in the haze of heat, noise from a far-off generator, and the scent of akara drifting from the campus roadside stalls, the idea hit me—I wasn’t interested in abstract theories; I wanted to write about people. Real people, with real stories: heartbreak, resilience, and yes, even the questionable DMs that have infiltrated modern relationships.

I didn’t know it yet, but that little moment was planting the seed of what would later bloom into my passion. Back then, it just felt like procrastination dressed as self-expression.

My “Aha Moment” Came with Pounded Yam and Rivalry

Fast forward a few years later. I was working with an NGO in Ghana, leading focus groups of women who had endured some of the hardest things life could throw at them. These women embodied strength, sharing their challenges over steaming bowls of jollof rice and pepper soup. These weren’t scripted interviews—they were conversations. Some of them would laugh, turning tragedy into humor the way only resilience can. Others spoke earnestly about wanting their daughters to have options they never did.

One woman told me, while pounding yam with steady precision, that she’d stayed in a loveless marriage because divorce bore more shame than unhappiness. “But do you regret it?” I ventured carefully. She stopped pounding, looked me in the eye, and said, “You can regret and survive, but choosing happiness comes with a sweet strength." My heart splintered open, and then it healed in a way I’d never experienced. I knew at that moment I wanted to chronicle stories like hers—not through clinical research papers but by writing from the heart. It felt electric, like finding the rhythm of a Tiwa Savage song when it gets to the good part.

The Joyful Act of Writing—And the Good Cry That Came With It

The day I sat down to tell her story—not just hers but the stories of women like her—I felt something click. There I was, on my laptop in my rented room in Accra, which still smelled faintly of the fried plantain I’d scarfed down for lunch. I started typing, and the world around me melted away. Suddenly, I was in a market in Abuja or a cramped Lagos danfo, all the memories of home rushing back as I typed about the delicate dance between tradition and choice, African love stories and their nuances, joys, and messy endings.

By the time I finished that first draft, tears were streaming down my face. But here’s the thing—those weren’t sad tears. Writing that piece felt like sewing tiny scraps of fabric together into a vibrant patchwork quilt. It took pieces of me—my upbringing, culture, family, education—and wove them with the realities of others into something whole and beautiful.

Why Joy Feels Like Flirting with Yourself

That first moment of joy wasn’t just about the finished piece—it was discovering something that called out to my most authentic self. You know that warm, fizzy feeling when you realize someone you’re crushing on might like you back? That’s what it felt like. Except the person I was flirting with was… me. Writing made me realize I was capable of capturing all the complexity I saw in others and sharing it in my own unfiltered voice.

And isn’t that what so many of us are searching for? Whether in work, love, or creative outlets, we crave something that lets us show up fully as ourselves. Writing was my mirror, reflecting back my deepest desires, fears, and passions.

How to Cultivate Your Moment of Joy

If you’re still searching for that thing that makes your soul come alive, take heart. Joy doesn’t always waltz into your life with fireworks and confetti. Sometimes, it sneaks in quietly, disguised as a late-night idea or a seemingly ordinary activity. Here’s how to start uncovering your own:

  1. Listen to Your Gut. Not every instinct will lead to a life-changing epiphany, but pay attention to what excites or moves you. Your passions often leave breadcrumbs.

  2. Dabble Without Guilt. You don’t have to turn every interest into a hustle. Enjoy hobbies simply because they light you up.

  3. Reflect on Your Memories. Sometimes, clues to what you love have been hidden in plain sight. Think back to the activities or moments that felt effortless and fulfilling.

  4. Let Go of the Outcome. My joy in writing wasn’t about getting published or making money (though, let me tell you, a published piece paid in pounds is its own dopamine hit). It was the act of doing it that mattered.

  5. Ask Better Questions. Instead of “What do I want to do?” ask, “What makes me feel alive?”

Choosing Joy Over Fear

Let me end with this. One of my aunts in Abuja has a favorite saying: “You can’t fear joy into your life.” It’s true. Sometimes, we let the fear of failure or not being perfect stop us from taking the tiniest step toward what might make us happy. But the first time I truly felt joy doing what I love, I wasn’t listening to fear—I was listening to my heart, messy as it was.

Joy doesn’t need to come in a perfectly wrapped package. It might arrive when you’re sitting in traffic, daydreaming about dancing again after years of sitting out. It might whisper to you at a family gathering, when your uncle cracks a joke, and you think, “I wish I could capture this feeling forever.” It might find you, like it found me, in the space between connecting with others and exploring yourself.

So why not give yourself a chance to flirt with your own dreams? You never know what might happen—or what kind of joy you might stumble into.