The First Time I Felt Joy Doing This

There was a morning not long ago when I sat, coffee steaming in hand, looking out over the smooth surface of Lake Tahoe. The water was glassy, the kind of clear you don’t believe until you see it, and I was trying to work through a knot of thoughts in my head about, well, life. My mom used to call moments like those “mountaintop pauses,” times when the world quiets down just enough for you to hear what you really need to be thinking about. What bubbled to the top of my mind that day wasn’t earth-shattering or movie-montage-worthy. It was this: the first time I truly felt joy in what I do wasn’t a grand event. It was quieter than that, more personal. And it had everything to do with a pair of scuffed hiking boots and a lightning-struck pine tree.

Lesson One: Even Passions Need Patience

I’ve hiked hundreds of miles in the Sierra Nevada, and it’s safe to say I didn’t feel fireworks every step of the way. Passion isn’t like instant mac and cheese; you don’t just add water, stir, and feel satisfied. My journey with writing, with connecting people to nature and to themselves, began the same way most awkward first dates do: with high hopes and a lot of fumbling.

The moment I’m talking about happened during my time with the Forest Service. There was this spot I’d been visiting often—an old pine tree split right down the middle by a lightning strike. It stood defiant against all odds, its charred bark somehow nourishing new growth at its base. It became a metaphor I kept circling back to: renewal out of destruction, scars and survival.

But on this particular day, I didn’t have some major epiphany out in the wilderness. No, it was later, when I sat down to write about that tree in what was supposed to be a routine report. Something about the way the words came out that day—messy, honest, way too poetic for government paperwork—felt different. It hit me: I cared more about telling that tree’s story than just crunching data about its ecosystem. I didn’t realize it at the time, but that sloppy paragraph was my first glimpse of a little thing called joy in my work.

Maybe it’s like relationships. You don’t fall in love because every moment together is perfect. You fall in love because one random day, they laugh at something dumb you said, and it hits you like lightning: This is it.

Find Your Version of the Pine Tree

Passion is often wrapped up in small, unexpected things, the ones you spot when you aren’t really looking. That pine tree didn’t knock me over with meaning the first time I saw it. It took me years of visiting it, of watching how it weathered summer heat and record winters, for it to matter.

If you’re wondering how this relates to dating (because you’re reading this and not some outdoorsy blog by accident), think about how many people you’ve met who don’t initially knock you off your feet. We’re trained to expect fireworks and grand romantic gestures, but really, connections often grow like that little life sprouting from the base of a burnt-out tree. Tiny. Almost invisible. But sturdy.

How do you find your own pine tree—whether it’s a passion, a relationship, or something else entirely? Try these:
- Pay Attention to What Feels Unexpectedly Good: Did you spend five hours researching how sourdough starter works and still want more? Do you secretly love the sound of your partner talking about their weird hobby? Notice those twinges of joy.
- Revisit Things That Seemed "Just Okay" Before: I didn’t get attached to that tree on my first visit—or my tenth. Sometimes what feels familiar grows into something extraordinary when you see it from a slightly new angle.
- Let Go of the "Shoulds": The pull of "I should love this" or "Shouldn’t I be good at this by now?" keeps us from appreciating little sparks of joy as they come.

Joy Is in the Doing, Not the Destination

Remember when I said this wasn’t a grand event? That’s because joy doesn’t always arrive with a parade. When I realized how much I loved writing about that pine tree, it didn’t matter that my audience at the time was...nobody. (Unless you count my boss, who did not.) I didn’t need applause for that scarred, resilient tree to change the way I wrote or lived.

I think we make the mistake of waiting for joy to show up in big, neon-lettered ways. Like when daters expect their soulmate to walk in during a rom-com-style meet-cute. But joy rarely gets delivered by FedEx. You feel it in the process, when you chase what excites you just for the sake of it.

So go on the date even if it feels low-key. Write the article knowing only your dog might read it. Spend an afternoon fixing up garage sale bikes that nobody’s waiting to buy. Don’t measure every effort by whether it looks successful from the outside. Real fulfillment often happens in the moments when you’re doing, not when you’re done.

Joy Can Be Messy—And That’s Perfect

Here’s another thing no one tells you about finding joy, probably because it doesn’t look cute on Instagram: it’s not always neat and tidy. That pine tree wasn’t a graceful sequoia standing tall in majestic perfection; it was literally split in half, burned, scruffy in places. Joy isn’t the polished finish line—it’s the awkward dance you bash through to get there. Choosing to love what you love takes vulnerability, the same way a charred tree doesn’t choose to uproot just because it doesn’t look "right" anymore.

Take a look at relationships in your life: the awkward stories, the shared struggles, the messy ways you grow together. If you’re waiting for joy to show up in perfectly curated moments, you might miss the magic in the ones where you’re both just trying your best. Life, love, and passion are all about embracing the cracks, not papering over them.

You Already Have All You Need

The lake that morning was still as a postcard, but it wasn’t the backdrop that mattered—it was the clarity I found in myself. The thing about joy is you don’t need to uproot your life to find it. Often, it’s already sitting quiet and patient, waiting for you to notice.

So here’s the takeaway: joy doesn’t necessarily announce its arrival. But when it sneaks in, you’ll know it because you’ll feel more like yourself than ever before—whether that’s through a lightning-split tree, a silly first date, or a passion you didn’t know you had.

The only thing left is to make space for it. Be patient. Look up from what you think your life should look like long enough to notice what’s growing in it already. And when it feels right, don’t hold back. Whether it’s a word, a person, or a path, nurture that spark like a stubborn pine tree rooted against all odds.