There’s a particular magic in falling in love with the thing that makes you feel most alive. Some people find it in a paintbrush; others in the hum of an engine. For me, it happened on a crisp October morning when I realized the thing I most wanted to protect wasn’t a person, but the place I called home. I fell in love with nature, and, like all good love stories, it changed everything. This isn’t just a biography of my passion—it’s a reminder that falling in love, whether with a person or a purpose, teaches you as much about yourself as it does about what you love.
The Meet-Cute: A Season Called Tahoe
Picture a ten-year-old boy sitting on the end of a creaky dock, toes trailing through the icy water, watching the leaves burn golden on the mountains. This was my idea of a perfect day growing up in Lake Tahoe. My early mornings were filled with the smell of pine and pancakes (thanks to our family lodge), and my nights were a symphony of crickets, campfire crackles, and the occasional ghost story from weary hikers.
It wasn’t just the scenery that stole my heart, though it played hard to get. Have you ever tried carrying a kayak 200 yards through sand that seems determined to eat your flip-flops? Nature didn’t present itself with dazzling charm every moment. Sometimes it showed up rough around the edges, like someone who forgets to text back but always remembers your coffee order—frustratingly irresistible.
Falling Hard: When Passion Finds You
Fast forward to high school. My outdoor education program organized a tree planting initiative along a washed-out riverbank. Honestly, 90% of us signed up to dodge calculus class. But there I was, elbow-deep in dirt, unearthing earthworms like tiny, reluctant gifts, when a switch flipped.
It wasn’t that the work was fun (spoiler: it wasn’t). It was backbreaking, buggy, and underwhelming—like a bad first date. Then the realization hit me: this work mattered. I could see the fragments of the story we were piecing together—cleaner water for spawning fish, steady soil for tree roots, shade for hikers. It was like watching two strangers hit it off and thinking, “Yeah, they’re meant to be.” Only this time, I was one half of the romance.
The first seeds of my passion for conservation were planted that day, quite literally. It was a wild cocktail of awe and responsibility. I wanted to care for the outdoors the way we hope our favorite people care for us: fully, deeply, and with a dash of humor for when things got messy.
The Honeymoon Phase: Lessons From the Wild
When you’re in the honeymoon phase of any relationship—be it with a person or your passion—everything feels bigger, brighter, and a little over the top. During college, I majored in Environmental Science and spent summers backpacking solo through the Sierra Nevada. I called these trips “field research,” though let’s be honest, they were also an excuse to escape social drama and existential dread over midterms.
Out there in the stillness, I learned that nature doesn’t care if you’re having a bad day. It doesn’t sugarcoat or indulge you for compliments. It holds a mirror up and asks, “Are you paying attention?”
During one memorable trek, I got caught in a surprise rainstorm without rain gear—because nothing screams "unprepared romantic" like heading into the mountains with sheer optimism as your main survival tool. Drenched and miserable, I set up camp under a towering Ponderosa pine, realizing I’d made about 742 bad decisions that day. Yet, as the storm cleared, the mountain vista opened up before me, glowing in that soft, watercolor light you only see after rain. My misery melted into wonder, and I thought, “If this isn’t love, what is?”
Staying Committed: From Lakeshore to Lifework
I’d like to tell you my passion and I have had smooth sailing since then, but anyone who’s ever been in love knows that’s rarely the case. After graduation, I took a job with the U.S. Forest Service, where my days were filled with decisions about which invasive species to tackle first and writing grant applications so sites could get eco-makeovers. Exciting in theory—but some days felt like trying to keep a dying houseplant alive with a prayer and half a cup of water: rewarding one moment, infuriating the next.
Still, the spark I felt never burned out. I fell more deeply in love with the process of stewardship, even when it felt like the natural world was constantly “ghosting” my efforts. There were (and still are) days when the enormity of climate change feels like a boulder I’m rolling uphill barefoot. But you don’t quit on what you love just because it’s hard. You learn to adapt. You write essays in the off-season that remind people why saving what we have matters. You find ways to make the work sustainable, not just for the planet but for you.
Dating Your Passion: Tips for the Commitment-Phobic
Honestly, building a relationship with any passion is like dating but with fewer overpriced cocktails and slightly less pressure from your mom to “define the relationship.” The parallels, though, are wild:
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Show Up Consistently
Whether it’s planting trees or deepening your relationship with a partner, showing up matters more than grand gestures. Small actions over time build trust—with people, with ecosystems, with yourself. -
Find the Fun
Remember to enjoy the ride. Protecting nature is serious work, but so is love. Neither should grind you down to a husk. Encounters with a curious raccoon or spotting an alpine meadow in bloom remind me why I started—and keep me coming back. -
Be Okay With Imperfection
Sometimes, I think the pine forests I adore are saying, “You can learn a lot about resilience from watching a tree grow out of a boulder.” The messy moments—muddy boots and all—are usually where the best lessons grow. -
Keep Growing Together
Your passion evolves just as you do. When I started writing personal essays about the wilderness, I didn’t realize they’d one day lead me here, blending my love for storytelling with my bond to the land. Be open to where your passion takes you—it might surprise you.
The Takeaway: Not All Love Stories Look the Same
Love comes in all kinds of packages. Some people find it in grand romantic gestures or handwritten letters. Others, like me, find it hiking through wet snow or nursing wildflowers back to life on an eroded hillside. The thrill is in finding what keeps your heart racing, whether that’s a partner who gets your quirks or a purpose that shapes who you are.
There’s an old Tahoe saying (fine, it might just be something I made up): “If it doesn’t challenge you, it won’t change you.” For me, falling in love with my passion meant leaning into the quiet, persistent pull of the outdoors and letting it shape my path—even when that path got rocky.
So, whether you’re falling head over heels for something new or dusting off an old dream, show up for it. Tend to it. Fall in love like the world depends on it—because, in some cases, it just might.
