I still remember the exact moment I felt it: pure, unfiltered joy bubbling up like the tide filling in a hidden cove. It wasn’t the kind of joy that comes from a new crush texting back with the perfect witty comeback or finding the last brownie tucked away in your fridge (although those rank pretty high). No, this was the rare kind of joy you feel in your bones, something so deeply right that it shifts the lens through which you see the world and yourself. And it all started with a tidepool.

A Tidepool Moment

Picture this: It’s a crisp summer morning in Acadia National Park. Seagulls are arguing overhead, the salty tang of the Atlantic is curling into the air, and I’m crouched over a tidepool, so unbothered by the mud creeping onto my knees that you’d think I was auditioning to be Maine’s messiest mermaid.

In my hand was a notebook, already stained with damp thumbprints, and I’d just spotted something—not the usual squat, shy crabs I’d come to expect, or even the slippery frills of seaweed waving in the current. This was a periwinkle snail, its tiny shell spiraling in perfect symmetry. Nothing unusual about that, except for the fact that it had emerged onto a jagged rock and was absolutely booking it across the surface.

For anyone unfamiliar with periwinkle snails, let me explain: these are creatures that generally embrace the “chill” part of coastal life. Slow movements. Lots of downtime clinging to seaweed. But this one had places to be, and I was riveted. So riveted, in fact, that I started scribbling notes in my notebook about its small, strange mission.

Something clicked in that moment, something bigger than the snail or the salt air or the way the sunlight glittered on the water. This crackling need to capture what I was observing—to describe it not just for myself, but for some imaginary Reader Out There—filled me with a kind of joy I hadn’t expected.

Finding the “Thing” That Makes You Light Up

If you’ve been on a few dates (or even just suffered through a handful of those dreaded "what’s your passion?" icebreaker games), you’ve probably thought about what gets you fired up. Some people find it quickly: cooking elaborate meals, playing guitar, collecting novelty salt and pepper shakers shaped like animals. Others struggle because the idea of one “true passion” feels intimidating.

Here’s the good news: That joy doesn’t always show up on a stage with a spotlight or come gift-wrapped in an obvious hobby. Sometimes, it sneaks up on you when you’re chasing a runaway snail across a rock. And sometimes, the joy itself is enough to tell you that you’ve found your thing—even if you don’t know what you’ll do with it yet.

So how do you lean into discovering that tidepool moment for yourself? A few thoughts based on both my coastal upbringing and some hilariously failed attempts to find joy elsewhere:

1. Pay Attention to What Feels Good, Not Just What You’re Good At

Enjoy singing but sound like a cat falling into a lobster trap? Dance with the same rhythm as a buoy being dragged by a current? Who cares. The real question is whether you feel that zing of joy while doing it.

I wasn’t “good” at documenting tidepools (trust me—those notes were more doodles than science), but it didn’t matter. If you’re drawn to something because it feels good, let yourself keep exploring it—without the pressure to turn it into a “productive” skill.

2. Let Go of the Big-Picture Expectations (At Least at First)

When I was young, I used to think talents or passions were supposed to be straightforward: you’d love something, then do it so well you’d get a trophy. So when my parents signed me up for piano lessons in elementary school—because, hey, I liked music—I assumed I’d be the next Norah Jones.

Spoiler alert: I wasn’t. I was bad. My recitals were a mix of wrong notes and awkward self-conscious grimaces. But what those melodramatic recitals taught me was that sometimes, intangible joys—like walking in the woods or pouring your heart into writing—have more longevity than pursuits tailored for applause.

And trust me, when you find an activity that makes you forget the word “outcome,” you’re getting closer to finding joy.

3. Don’t Compare Your Passion Story to Anyone Else’s

This goes double if you’re scrolling through Instagram wondering how everyone else seems to have these polished, photogenic hobbies involving pottery wheels or mountain summits. The truth is, joy doesn’t follow a set script. Your moment might not look like theirs.

That tidepool moment of mine? It made me realize that I didn’t need to create a glossy version of life for someone else’s approval. I wanted to write—simply for the joy of noticing, connecting, and sharing. And once I embraced my thing as mine alone, it was easier to cultivate.

Joy and Love Are Kind of in the Same Boat (Literally)

Finding joy is a bit like being in a relationship. Not the whirlwind “this person completes me” kind of rom-com relationship, but the real, day-to-day work of caring about something enough to stay curious. You’re going to have off days. You’ll question whether you’re doing it right. But just like finding a good partner, discovering what lights you up comes down to consistency. You show up, keep exploring, and trust that the joy will keep resurfacing—even if it’s in unexpected ways.

That funny little snail nudged me toward writing—not because it was a grand epiphany, but because it felt right. It wasn’t the kind of moment you’d put in a highlight reel. No slow clapping audience, no orchestral swell. Just one girl with a notebook, knee-deep in mud. And, you know what? That’s the beauty of joy.

Stop Searching for Fireworks When the Tide Can Speak

So here’s my advice: Loosen your grip on what “joy” is supposed to look like, and pay attention to where your curiosity naturally drifts. You don't have to hunt it down like it's playing hide and seek—it’s already out there, waiting for you to notice. Whether it’s during a walk through the woods, a quiet backyard moment, or yes, even a lobster roll-eating contest (I won’t judge), let yourself be surprised by what fills you up.

Because just like building a relationship—whether with yourself, someone else, or the world around you—it starts where you are. It starts small, like a snail on a mission. And when it happens, trust me, you’ll feel it.