They say you never forget your first love. Mine just happened to be writing—specifically the kind of writing that feels like pulling a thread from your soul and laying it out on a page for others to find something in it. It wasn’t always like this, of course. My early attempts at storytelling were a little more “fanfiction meets algebra notes” than Great American Novel, but the first time I felt pure joy in what I was creating? That was something entirely different. And it all started with a gala, an ill-advised pair of stilettos, and one awkwardly overheard conversation.

The Scene of the First Spark

Picture this: Buckhead in late spring. The air was thick with humidity and the kind of honeysuckle-sweetness that only Atlanta evenings can hold. I was 16, dutifully attending what felt like my fortieth charity gala of the year, as my parents schmoozed their way through a sea of pearls, bourbon-laced laughter, and power plays disguised as small talk.

I was planted near the dessert table, discreetly nursing a blister from my heels (Jimmy Choo knockoffs from an outlet sale; a rookie mistake), when I overheard a group of adults dissecting the nuances of “keeping up appearances.” One woman in a shimmering green gown leaned in and said, “Well, everyone knows the Winslows are new money. It’s not the same.”

I wasn’t exactly sure what “not the same” meant, but I knew then I wanted to capture those moments—the unpolished truths tucked inside layers of Southern charm and sparkle. It wasn’t just the gossip (though admittedly, that was fascinating). It was the dynamics, the vulnerabilities barely concealed under designer silk.

That night, I went home, kicked off those heels like they were personal insults, and wrote a short story about a fictional charity gala gone awry. I wove in what I’d witnessed—small-town quirks disguised as sophistication, family secrets blending with appetizers, and the unspoken rules of who gets to sit at which table. For the first time, writing wasn’t just a school assignment or an outlet for angsty teenage poetry—it was exhilarating.

Finding Joy in the Details

Here’s the thing about discovering what makes you happy: it often hides in the details. Up until that night, I hadn’t realized how much I loved observing people. (Not in a creepy, double-texting-you-after-a-Tuesday-coffee-date kind of way, but in the way people reveal themselves in snippets: the offhand remarks, the too-long pauses, the darting glances.) And trust me, when you grow up in Atlanta, particularly in my corner of the city, there’s no shortage of material.

At its core, writing is really about connecting the dots. You watch and listen and weave those details into something that feels real. When I finally realized this—not just intellectually, but emotionally—I felt like I’d stepped into a whole new world.

If you’re in that place where you’re searching for your joy, whether it’s writing, cake decorating, or nailing the guitar riff from “Purple Rain,” start paying attention to the small moments. What lights you up? What makes the hours disappear before you’ve even noticed? For me, it was the distinct pleasure of putting human behavior into words—preferably with a little wit and an occasional sting.

Giving Yourself Permission to Enjoy

But let’s be honest: joy isn’t always love at first sight. Sometimes it’s like a slow-burn romance in a period drama—it sneaks up on you after a lot of “is this really it?” doubts.

For years, I wrote without giving myself permission to enjoy it. A little voice in my head insisted that writing was the sort of indulgence that belonged to mythical “other people”—those effortlessly cool, thrift-store-sweater-wearing types you imagine writing novels in coffee shops with names like “The Roasted Owl.” Not someone like me, whose weekends were more likely spent choosing the appropriate hairstyle to balance debutante expectations and SAT prep.

But the truth is, perfection isn’t required to feel joy in your passion. You don’t have to be “the best” or have everything figured out. You can giggle at your own bad metaphors, get lost in a scene that goes nowhere, or splatter carrot cake frosting on your ceiling while practicing your piping skills. Joy comes in the mess. For me, it was in writing drafts that were deeply flawed but deeply honest.

If I had waited to feel “qualified” before letting myself love writing, I’d still be sitting by the dessert table, nursing my blisters.

Bridging the Gap Between Love and Work

Here’s where it gets tricky, though: once you find something that brings you joy, there’s an unspoken expectation to make it more than just a hobby. Blame the side-hustle culture or just the universal human insecurity of, well, being human, but for years, I felt like my writing wasn’t “legitimate” until it came with a paycheck.

When I started my job at an Atlanta lifestyle magazine, I was buzzing with anticipation. Surely this was the moment my joy became my craft, right?

Spoiler alert: Writing puff pieces on where to find the city’s best kale salad didn’t exactly ignite that creative fire. There were glimpses, sure—a profile on an up-and-coming artist or a story on local jazz history—but most of it felt disconnected from what I loved.

It wasn’t until much later, when I started writing fiction again, that I felt the joy creep back in. I realized the sweet spot between love and work isn’t about the external rewards—it’s about finding ways to make your work feel connected to that original spark. Whether you’re designing spreadsheets or wedding dresses, figure out what about your craft makes you feel alive and lean into that.

Taking that First Step

So, how do you find that thing that brings you joy? For me, it took one uncomfortable night in heels, an overheard conversation, and a quiet moment at my desk. You don’t need a grand epiphany, just a willingness to lean into curiosity.

Ask yourself:

  • What makes me lose track of time?
  • When do I feel most “myself”?
  • What scares me a little—but excites me a lot?

I won’t pretend to have all the answers. Some days, writing still feels more like pulling teeth than pulling magic from the air. But even on those days, I’m reminded of that first moment of joy—the one that made me realize there’s beauty in finding passion and power in chasing it.

The Encouraging Wrap-Up

Here’s what I’ll leave you with: The first time you feel joy in your passion is a moment you’ll carry with you, even if it’s not as obvious as a love-at-first-sigh rom-com montage. It’s the kind of quiet, deeply personal triumph that reminds you life isn’t just about showing up—it’s about discovering what makes you come alive once you’re there.

And if you’ve yet to experience that spark? Don’t worry—it’s out there, closer than you think, probably waiting for you beside a dessert table, in a pair of terrible knockoff shoes.