The Moment That Changed Everything

It happened on a Tuesday. Not the kind of Tuesday people remember—like their birthday or Taco Tuesday or the one where their favorite show dropped a shocking cliffhanger. No, this was a sleepy Tuesday in early June. The kind where the sun lingers awkwardly past dinner like a guest who doesn’t realize you need to get to bed.

I was twenty-five, fresh out of grad school, and still convinced I could “change the world” with a few well-crafted sentences and a deep love of ferns. Honestly, it was my idealistic “marry your passion” phase—the romantic equivalent of dating someone solely because they’re charming and know how to make Eggs Benedict. Enter writing.

For years, my writing and I had been flirty acquaintances. We’d exchange glances across the room (me journaling under a tree or tapping away on a laptop at the coffee shop), but I hadn’t yet let myself truly fall for it. Until that Tuesday. That was the day I wrote something just for me—with no professors to impress, no high stakes, and no looming deadlines.

The surprising part? Doing it felt dangerously like joy—not the polite, Hallmark-card kind of joy, but the uncontainable, grinning-while-eating-donuts kind. I was hooked.

Let me take you back.

The Lake That Knew My Secrets

Growing up on a lakeside resort in Idaho, I didn’t really understand quiet moments. Between tourists forgetting their sunscreen and asking me where the "mountain moose tours" started (spoiler: not a thing), stillness felt like something I’d have to schedule in Google Calendar.

But the lake? It got me. It was where I’d retreat whenever the world felt like too much—a place to press pause, stare at dragonflies, and wonder how something could shimmer so much without trying.

In high school, I used to sit at the dock with a $2 notebook and scribble down half-finished thoughts like, “What if coyotes are just dogs with commitment issues?” and “Do trees know their wood will, one day, house us?” Writer-in-training, clearly. Back then, my random musings were just background noise for my main focus: trying to untangle my crush’s impossibly cryptic texts (newsflash for teenage Avery: “k” is not a love confession).

College gave me new writing muscles—the kind that let me craft heartfelt essays on deforestation or wax poetic about snow-capped mountains. But joy? The reckless, full-body thrill of writing like nobody’s watching? That was still as elusive as a bear in flip-flops.

Until that random June Tuesday.

The Breakthrough

Picture me, twenty-five, wearing mismatched socks, eating cereal straight out of the box, and staring at my laptop like it had personally wronged me. I was supposed to be revising a climate advocacy report for work. Instead, I opened a blank document and just… let myself write.

I don’t know what gave me permission. Maybe it was the weather (a comfy sweater kind of day). Maybe I’d just hit a wall with trying to force everything to be “important.” But suddenly, out spilled a story about a young girl stealing her mom’s canoe to save a scruffy dog she saw paddling after ducks on the lake. It wasn’t polished. It didn’t make much sense. But it was mine—and it felt electric.

That day, I stopped treating writing like a part-time fling. It wasn’t a backup plan or something to “figure out later.” It was my home.

And honestly? This idea of finding surprising joy resonates in relationships, too. There’s a temptation to reserve joy for the big stuff: when someone says “I love you” for the first time, a shared vacation, or a wedding vows moment that could rival The Notebook. But some of the purest moments of connection happen when you’re simply not trying too hard.

Flirting with Happiness in Every Moment

I’ve replayed that Tuesday in my mind a thousand times since. How it didn’t feel dramatic but carried weight anyway. That’s the thing about moments that make you unexpectedly happy—they never arrive wearing neon signs or holding bouquets. Sometimes they’re buried in the everyday, just waiting to surprise you.

Want to cultivate these moments in your own life? Here are a few ways to flirt (and maybe fall in love) with them:

  • Stop chasing “perfect.” Joy often pops up in the imperfect and unplanned—like laughing so hard during your partner’s attempt at DIY home projects that you both forget to stress about the leaning bookshelf.

  • Take yourself on a date. Cliché? Yes. Worth it? Also yes. Do the thing you love unapologetically, whether it’s baking disastrous cupcakes, exploring a new hiking trail, or building that Lego set technically marketed for ages 8-12.

  • Be okay with messy. Whether it’s friendship, love, or creativity, some of the best moments come from letting go of the highlight reel version of yourself.

  • Find a place that reminds you to breathe. For me, it’s always been bodies of water—lakes, rivers, even the occasional rainstorm. For you? Maybe it’s your favorite rooftop, the corner booth at your go-to diner, or even the coziest spot on your couch.

When Joy Becomes Familiar

That Tuesday wasn’t the last time writing brought me scattered, offbeat joy. I think of it often when I’m editing a piece at 1 AM with a mug of tea and three tabs open for “synonyms for picturesque.” Writing still isn’t easy—it’s intense and consuming and sometimes feels like a messy, unstoppable crush you can’t shake.

But just like in relationships, joy deepens over time. It doesn’t always have to shout. It can sit quietly beside you—like sunlight on your shoulder or the scent of pine trees after a storm—reminding you why you started in the first place.

So, whether you’re navigating love, putting yourself out there, or chasing a creative spark, don’t wait for the fireworks moment to tell you you’re on the right path. Sometimes all it takes is a random Tuesday.