The First Time I Felt Joy Doing This

There’s something oddly romantic about shoveling horse manure at sunset. Stay with me here. Picture it—a fading Montana sky streaked with pink and orange, the kind of colors that scream, Buy me in watercolor postcard form!. There I was, knee-deep in chores, sweat dripping down the back of my neck, when it hit me. No, not an aggressive barn cat or a rogue scoop of hay. It was a feeling—joy. Real, unfiltered joy.

It wasn’t the glamorous kind of happiness people plaster across Instagram with captions like “#grateful” and soft-filtered coffee cups. It wasn’t tied to a grand achievement or some life milestone society tells us should matter. It was small, unassuming, and pure—like the feral kittens we sometimes found in our hayloft. Honestly, it caught me by surprise, and if you’re wondering why an epiphany struck me mid-muck duty, well, let’s take it back a few beats.

My Cowboy Cinderella Moment

Growing up on a Montana ranch meant that physical work wasn’t a punishment—it was simply life. Before I could do long division, I could saddle a pony. Before I thought about what I wanted to do when I grew up, I was already learning how to mend fences and wrangle a runaway chicken from the neighbor’s coop because our rooster fancied himself a Casanova.

My parents, stalwart operators of a small horse-breeding business, believed in the rugged magic of hard work. And by “magic,” I mean waking up at ungodly hours and learning that sweat equity isn’t some inspirational Pinterest idea, it’s literal sweat. By the time I was a teenager, the ranch felt less like home and more like a never-ending checklist. Feed horses. Water troughs. Shovel, drive, repeat.

That particular evening, though, I remember dragging my feet out to the barn. My favorite horse, Clover, had given me the silent treatment after I refused her extra oat pellets earlier in the week. She held grudges in a way that felt almost human. As I cleaned her stall, occasionally being “accidentally” elbowed by her nose, I started to hum one of Alison Krauss’s ballads.

And suddenly, something clicked. The hum of nearby crickets, the rhythm of manual work, the golden shafts of wheat swaying in the distance—everything about the moment made sense. For the first time, I felt joy not because something extraordinary was happening, but because I was living in it. Here, in this quiet stillness of chores and sunsets, was happiness.

Joy Is in the Little Connections

I look back on that moment as the first time I truly understood what joy should feel like—effortless, subtle, and deeply personal. We’re conditioned to think joy needs to come wrapped in rose petals or coated in fireworks. Your wedding day? Joy. A new job? Joy. Date night at a five-star restaurant? Definitely joy. And sure, those are worth celebrating. But if you’re waiting for grandiose moments to strike before you let yourself feel happiness, you’re missing out on the everyday sparkle of life.

Think about relationships, for instance. I’ve seen the kinds of dates people chalk up as “perfect.” Elegant meals with prix fixe menus. Sit-down interviews masquerading as happy hour. Okay, fine, if that’s your joy, don’t let me hold you back. But in my experience, the best moments of connection are usually unplanned and wildly unglamorous.

Take the first boy I liked in college. Instead of impressing me in class with philosophical musings (what is postmodernism, anyway?), he earned extra points for bringing me cold pizza when he realized I skipped the dining hall to study. That joy I felt when he handed me that greasy cardboard box? Equivalent to the joy I felt on the ranch that day—simple, authentic, and better than any scripted “romantic” gesture.

Cultivating Joy in the Everyday

So how do you find the kind of joy that sneaks up on you when you least expect it? It doesn’t require a barn (though I can personally recommend it). Start with this:

  • Shed the idea of “perfect.” Stop chasing highlight-reel moments. You don’t need a dramatic declaration of love. Joy is often found when mascara isn’t involved.

  • Do something physical. Shake yourself out of your bubble. Maybe that’s yoga. Maybe it’s hiking or dancing badly in your kitchen. Joy loves to piggyback on movement.

  • Learn to love repetition. You know that Taylor Swift song you’ve replayed 17 times too many? Treat life like that. Find comfort in consistency. Wash the dishes. Walk the dog. Whatever it is, sink into it fully.

  • Embrace imperfection. Joy hides in the cracks. You’ll notice it when you stop trying to plaster everything over with perfection or expectation.

Joy Isn’t “Extra”—It’s Right There

The truth is, joy doesn’t scream at you from across the room. It’s not hanging out in neon signs or plastered across your online horoscope predictions (though, hey, I respect an optimistic Sagittarius forecast). It’s quietly hanging out in the delivery boy’s grin when he hands over your favorite tacos. It’s in the silence after an inside joke that needed no extra explanation. It’s scrubbing your kitchen floor at divine golden hour—hands sticky but spirit surprisingly light.

That moment in the barn years ago didn’t just make me feel good that night; it taught me that some of life’s greatest joys are the ones we don’t schedule, post, or plan for. Sure, I’ve had “bigger” moments since—the publication of my first novel, the nights spent laughing until sunrise with someone who just got me—but I don’t compare them. Joy isn’t a competition. It’s a companion we find wrapped in the fabric of daily life.

So, the next time life hands you a chore—or cold pizza, or an awkward first-date laugh—lean in. That right there could be your own Montana-sunset-muck bucket moment. And trust me, those are the ones worth holding onto.