The First Time I Felt Joy Doing This

That Time I Became a Human Lobster for Love

Picture this: I’m twenty-one, standing ankle-deep in the icy water off Coatue Beach on an unseasonably chilly October morning, holding a rusty old rake and a bucket. Romantic, right? Not exactly the kind of vibe you’d see in one of those Instagram-concocted “cottagecore meets coastal life” reels, complete with linen shirts and effortless tans. No, I looked more like a struggling extra in a low-budget whaling documentary, already regretting my choices in footwear.

And yet, despite the soggy sneakers and whipping wind, something unmistakable clicked in me that day. I felt it—joy. Utter joy. The kind of joy that warms you from the inside out, even when the Atlantic is doing its best to turn you into a popsicle. But to explain how I got there (and why I was combing half the beach for clams), I need to rewind the reel.

How Raking Clams Taught Me About Passion

Growing up on Nantucket, I always knew the island’s rhythms—its scratchy grasses, its never-ending horizon of sea and sky. But like any self-assured kid itching for life outside a 46-square-mile sandbox, I couldn’t wait to leave it behind. I thought passion meant diving headlong into big cities and bigger dreams. I imagined it’d feel electric, like plugging into some unseen force. For me, that was history: the dusty pages of maritime records and the drama of other people doing reckless things with schooners.

And I genuinely loved it. For years, I scholarly-ed my way across libraries and harbors, tugging stories from New England’s saltier past. But something was missing. “Joy” wasn’t quite the word I’d have used—pride, accomplishment, interest, yes. But joy? That stayed out of reach.

Fast-forward to that October morning. A friend had invited me to join them for clamming. (Why? Hard to say—probably because I’d once asserted I “knew my way around the sea” during an overly confident round of trivia.) They handed me a rake and offered little else by way of instruction. Yet somehow, as the tide rolled back to expose the seabed treasures, I was hit with a realization.

This wasn’t just tradition or sustenance or even casual recreation. This, my friends, was romance, pure and simple. Not the roses-and-candles sort, but the pulse of connection—to nature, to heritage, and yes, to joy. I wasn’t just raking for clams. I was raking for perspective.

Finding Clams, Finding Meaning

You’d think clams and dating would live worlds apart. But let me tell you, they share uncanny similarities. For one, both require you to be fully present and ridiculously patient. There you are, kneeling in the muck, scanning for tiny air holes or subtle bubbles, trying to interpret the language of the sand. Mentally? It’s a bit like texting someone new—the signs matter. One wrong move and poof, you’ve scared away the good stuff.

Second? You never get exactly what you expect. Sure, you might walk in thinking you’re about to haul in a dozen plump littlenecks. But instead, you’ll rake up a bunch of cracked shells and a crab you definitely didn’t invite to happy hour. And sometimes, what you think you’re going for isn’t what you actually need. Are you hunting clams, or are you reconnecting with the parts of yourself you didn’t realize were starving? (Deep—I know. Thank the salt air for that one.)

When Passion Meets Play

If you’d asked me before that day what joy should look like, I probably would’ve pictured something higher-octane than saltwater mud and intertidal foraging. Something cinematic, with dramatic music swelling in the background. But the reality of joy is quieter than that. It sneaks up on you precisely because you’re not trying to pinpoint its coordinates.

Let’s get real: A lot of us go through life treating our passions like achievement unlocks on a video game. You find “the one thing,” perfect it, then bask in unparalleled happiness like you’ve discovered life’s cheat code. But passions—whether they’re creative pursuits, hobbies, or relationships—don’t work that way. They’re messy. Layered. Playful.

And if you’re wondering, playfulness is criminally underrated when it comes to relationships too. Somewhere along the way, we shift into thinking every spark has to lead to something Serious™. (Spoiler: It doesn’t.) For one glorious hour raking clams, I remembered what it felt like to simply enjoy—a refreshing reminder for a guy whose instincts usually lean toward “overthink everything to the point of existential crisis.”

What Clams Taught Me About Love (Really)

When I eventually stood ankle-deep in the surf, bucket in hand and fingers freezing, I felt more alive—and dare I say it, happier—than I had in months. Was it because of the clams themselves? Not really. (Side note: I actually don’t love eating them, despite living on an island famous for its seafood. An inconvenient truth I’ll never share with my purist neighbors.) No, it was about finding joy in the utterly, sublimely ordinary.

We often treat relationships and passion as all-or-nothing ventures. You’re either fully “in” or completely “checked out.” But what if the real magic happens in those middle spaces—the flirtation stage, the experimentation phase, the pure, unadulterated joy of trying something for the first time?

Consider this: Nobody ever finds joy by force. You can’t rake it up any more than you can will a relationship to blossom prematurely. But clamming—and connection—has taught me how deeply we thrive when we lean into moments of curiosity and play, even if (or maybe especially when) things get messy.

Permission to Be Joyfully Bad at Something

This is where I made my biggest mistake about joy, passion, and frankly, love too. I thought the only way to find happiness was to excel—to be perfect at something before it felt meaningful. But the first clam I raked taught me otherwise. You don’t need to be perfect, or even particularly good, to feel joy bubble up. You just need to let go of the expectations that tell you everything needs a stated purpose—or swipe-worthy polish—to matter.

So, whether it’s trying out an obscure maritime hobby, going on a comedy-of-errors first date, or opening yourself up to something you think probably isn’t your forte, I say: Do it anyway. Joy is more accessible than you think, but it doesn’t respond well to pressure. Dip your toes in, be willing to laugh at yourself, and trust the process.

And if there’s a lesson for love in all of this? Maybe it’s this: The people worth holding onto—and the passions worth pursuing—will meet you where you are, soggy sneakers and all.

Encouragement for Your Next Step

The funny thing about joy? It rarely arrives when you’re hunting for it in the picture-perfect moments. Instead, it blindsides you in the in-between. Maybe it’s not about grand occasions—or sweeping gestures—but rather those mornings where you’re ankle-deep in something wonderfully unfamiliar.

So, take that first step. Sign up for the art class, go on the unexpected date, or yes, grab a rake and follow the retreating tide. Because joy is waiting out there somewhere. And trust me, when it finds you, it’s worth every heart-skipping, mud-squelching moment.