The First Time I Felt Joy Doing This

Finding My Bliss in the Most Unexpected Place

Let’s set the scene: It’s a damp November evening in Montreal, the kind where the cold seeps into your bones and your Netflix queue holds more appeal than any social outing. I was in my early twenties and grappling with the “what-am-I-doing-with-my-life” blues. You know, the existential crisis that hits after graduation when you’re clutching a totally useless Comparative Literature degree, wondering why bills don’t accept literary appreciation as payment. Spoiler alert: they don’t.

On this particular evening, while most sane people were curled up with a blanket and a distraction, I found myself shoved into a café-basement hybrid, buzzing with creative energy and smelling faintly of second-hand books and espresso. Why? Because in a moment of ill-advised bravery (read: a friend peer-pressured me), I had signed up for an open mic night.

Now, if you’ve never stood in front of strangers to share something you’ve poured your soul into, imagine skydiving… but the parachute screams, “Is everyone judging me?” every time you pull the cord. My palms were slick, my heart was doing an Olympic-level floor routine, and I was 93% sure I would throw up on the ridiculously trendy vintage rug beneath me.

I read a short story that night. A tale about mismatched love in the Plateau, inspired by those sticky, wonderful, awkward moments when language barriers collide with romance. (Sound familiar, fellow Montrealers?) My voice shook at first, but somewhere between the second and third paragraph, I caught something—laughter. Not polite laughs, either. Real, from-the-belly chuckles echoing back at me like cheers of validation.

For the first time ever, I felt it. Joy. Not the “oh, it’s Friday” joy or the fleeting “yay, I didn’t burn my breakfast” joy. No. It was the full-bodied, heart-thumping, vivid kind of joy that comes from realizing your words—your perspective—can connect with someone else.

And it’s not just joy. It’s empowerment.

Why Finding Joy in Your Passion Feels Like Falling in Love

Falling in love with something new is a lot like dating—there’s the initial doubt, the awkward “is this me?” phase, and then the eventual moment where it just clicks. When people talk about passions, they act like they’re born knowing what they’re destined to do, like some angel came down and whispered, “Thou shalt become a graphic designer” or “Pottery is your life’s true calling.” Spoiler: that angel didn’t show up for me.

Before that open mic night, I thought writing was supposed to be this brooding, solitary pursuit. After all, I’d spent most of my time holed up in trendy coffee shops trying to write poetry so profound it would make Leonard Cohen weep. But the joy shifted everything—it reminded me that creativity can be communal, tender, even fun.

If joy in passion is love’s electric cousin, then here’s what I learned about falling for what you do:

  1. It won’t always look the way you expect.
    Just like dating someone who insists pineapple belongs on pizza (weird, but okay), joy can surprise you. I thought I’d find joy in making my college professors nod approvingly at my brilliance. Turns out, my joy spilled out of strangers laughing over my awkward timing and raw honesty.

  2. It feels equal parts thrilling and terrifying.
    If jumping into a new hobby doesn’t make you feel dangerously close to a stomach ache, you’re probably holding back. Passions, just like love, ask for vulnerability—they ask you to show up, flaws in tow.

  3. Your “first joy” moment will spoil you.
    Once you feel that euphoric connection, the sky-high sense of pride, you’ll chase it like your favorite rom-com moment. You’ll promise yourself you’ll never settle for less again—and honestly, you shouldn’t.

How You Can Find (or Rediscover) Your Joy

Maybe you're reading this thinking, "Great, Juliette, good for you, but how the heck do I find my joy through something as painfully awkward as open mic?" First, I hear you. Finding that thing—that spark—can feel overwhelming, like looking for a needle in a haystack. (Or, if you're me, looking for Wi-Fi near the Laurentians.) But here’s the trick: Start small, and start scared.

  • Experiment recklessly.
    Think of it like speed dating, but with hobbies or interests. Always envied people who bake elaborate sourdough loaves? Want to try salsa dancing even though you have two left feet? Give it a go. It doesn’t have to be perfect—it just has to be. My open mic experiment started as a “well, what’s the worst that could happen?” moment. Worst case? No one laughs. Best case? Joy.

  • Listen to your gut.
    You know that little voice that says, “What if this is fun?” Follow it like it’s guiding you to the last midnight poutine place open in Montreal. That curiosity might lead you somewhere ridiculously fulfilling.

  • Share it.
    Whatever “it” is—writing, painting, bad karaoke—share it with someone. We’re often way kinder to others than we are to ourselves, so letting someone else see your potential can inspire you to see it too. (And real talk: sometimes strangers laugh at your jokes before you learn to love them yourself.)

  • Know when to pivot.
    Passion isn’t a one-way relationship. Sometimes you need space or distance to grow back into what you love. Other times, you outgrow it entirely. That’s okay. I don’t drag my literary short stories to every social gathering these days—but I still write, and I still feel that expansive joy when the words hit just right.

Joy Is the Ultimate Comeback Story

Over the years, people have asked me if writing still brings me as much joy as it did that night at the café. The truth? It’s different now. Like any long-term relationship, the spark evolves. It’s less butterflies-in-your-stomach, more warm-pancakes-on-a-Sunday-morning. But as I sit down to write—a novel, an article, the occasional snarky tweet—there’s always a trace of that first joy, glimmering just beneath the surface.

Passion, my friends, isn’t always an instant-match Tinder date. Sometimes, it takes time, perseverance, and a little blind courage. But when you find it? When joy sneaks in and calls shotgun in your life? Hold onto it. Nurture it. Let it shape you into someone you’re proud to be.

You’ll never forget the first time it happens—and if you're lucky, it won’t be the last.