Growing up in a house where music was basically the extra sibling no one talks about at Thanksgiving, I thought passion was just something you inherited. My dad? Passionate about his guitar. My mom? Passionate about teaching kids how to squawk Hot Cross Buns on recorders. But me? At ten years old, my idea of passion extended to eating the marshmallows out of the Lucky Charms box before my brother got to them. Spoiler alert: I was grounded for a week, and the Lucky Charms box went “missing.” Tragic, but transformative.

Little did I know, my passion was hiding in plain sight, tucked away in the country lyrics my dad hummed when he thought no one was listening, or in the stories I’d scribble in my school notebooks when I was supposed to be diagramming sentences. (Sorry, Ms. Taylor—diagramming sentences just didn’t pluck my heartstrings like figuring out why my fictional protagonist kept arguing with her best friend over a boy named Dusty).

What started as innocent dabbling turned into my calling, one late-night open mic at a scrappy East Nashville coffee shop at a time. And once it hit me, it hit hard. Turns out, passion can sneak up on you like a rom-com moment when the love interest is right under your nose the whole time. Except instead of Jude Law, my True North was writing—and I didn’t even have to put on fake eyelashes to get its attention.

Love at First Write (Sort Of)

Let’s be clear—it wasn’t an immediate, fireworks-big-kiss-in-the-rain moment for me and writing. If my early attempts at storytelling were a first date, they’d be the kind where you accidentally knock over your drink, laugh louder than necessary, and talk too much about your ex. My stories were raw, messy, and unfocused, sort of like early-season Ross Geller. But even when my words felt clunky or when every second sentence started with “and then,” there was something thrilling about it—like hitting the high note of Landslide in karaoke and nailing it. Or, at least thinking you nailed it.

In high school, my English teacher told me my storytelling “had potential” (a polite way to say “nice try, kid”). But if there was one thing I learned from growing up surrounded by musicians, it’s that potential doesn’t matter unless you show up. My dad didn’t get standing ovations the first time he played at the Station Inn—he got blank stares and a guy in the back asking if there was still chicken fried steak on the menu. But he kept showing up anyway. And in my own way, so did I.

When writing and I finally started clicking, it was poetry first (because what teenager doesn’t want to channel heartbreak into metaphors about fall leaves?) and later, songs. I loved the economy of lyrics—how you could say so much in a single line, like Dolly Parton packing a world of heartbreak into “I will always love you”. Every word counted. Every choice mattered. And this idea—that storytelling isn’t just an act but an art—became the tiny spark that turned writing into my passion.

Keeping the Fire Alive

Now here’s the thing no one tells you about passion: it’s not all magic and inspiration. Passion is a commitment, like swearing allegiance to the same karaoke duet partner even when they insist on singing both parts of Shallow. There are days when writing feels like an easy groove, and other days when staring at a blank screen feels about as inviting as a lunchtime text from your ex.

But here’s the truth: passion isn’t necessarily about being good at something every day (thank goodness, or else half of Nashville wouldn’t own guitars). It’s about staying curious enough to keep going, even when you’re offbeat. The moments that remind me why I fell in love with it—the thrill of nailing a scene, the beauty of finding the perfect metaphor—reignite my devotion, one story at a time. It's the literary equivalent of falling in love with your partner all over again when they do something as simple as make you coffee without you asking.

So, how do you keep passion from fizzling out like yesterday’s La Croix? Here’s what works for me:

1. Find Your Muse(s)

For me, that means sunday strolls down Broadway in Nashville, people-watching at Honky Tonk Central, and finding poetry in a tourist asking if “y’all sell cowboy hats with sequins.” Life is bizarre, heartbreaking, and beautiful—and being open to the ordinary is like aerating the soil of your creative garden. Whether you draw inspiration from rooftop bars, your group chat, or weird family dinners, lean into the quirks. Art comes from observation.

2. Work Through the Awkward Silence

You know that moment on a date when no one’s talking, and you’re wondering why you decided to leave your sweatpants and Netflix for this stranger? Writing feels like that, a lot. But you have to push through it. Even when inspiration feels like the Titanic and you’re Jack clinging to a door for dear life, just keep going. (And yes, there was room on that door for two, but I digress.)

3. Stay Flexible

Even the most passionate country crooners don’t write bangers every time (for every Jolene, there’s a Romeo—sorry, Dolly). The same goes for any pursuit you love. Be okay with pivoting. My own writing career meandered—the songbook shifted into novels, personal essays, pieces like this one. I may not be belting out Grammy-winning country tunes, but my words are still dancing to the same Southern-inspired beat.

What Passion Has Taught Me About (You Guessed It) Relationships

Here’s the beautiful thing about passion—it mirrors the way we love. Think about it. Falling for someone new? That sheer thrill and curiosity echoes discovering a creative path. Building a lasting relationship? It’s about learning to recommit every single day, even when the excitement dims. You fight for the people you love and the things that make your heart feel alive, often in ways that will forever remain imperfect. You celebrate their quirks. You forgive their stumbles. You tell their stories.

In many ways, keeping my passion alive has taught me patience and consistency in my personal relationships, too. After all, feeling “blah” about something (or someone) is normal—it’s the groundwork of growth. Showing up, even when it’s hard, shows the depth of your care. Passion’s not about perfection, it’s about persistence.

Conclusion: Hit Repeat

Falling in love with my passion wasn’t dramatic or movie-worthy, but it was real. It crept up on me, swirled itself into my awkward teenage poetry, latched onto late-night lyric brainstorms with other broke musicians, and matured into a way of life I can’t imagine living without. Writing turned into my rhythm, my north star, my happy middle ground between reality and dreams.

So, whether you’re chasing your passion or still figuring out what it is, my advice is this: let it evolve. Let it surprise you. Show up for it even when it feels clunky and unremarkable. The more you nurture it, the more it’ll give back—till one day, you realize you’re not just cultivating passion. You’re building a lifelong love story.