The First Time I Felt Joy Doing This

The Surprise of Joy in Unexpected Places

I didn’t set out to feel joy. At least not that day. As a newly minted adult fresh out of Yale, joy was a luxury I assumed people in Hallmark commercials or couples running through fields of sunflowers experienced—not someone like me, juggling internships while mentally tallying my student loans with every overpriced Brooklyn cold brew. But joy has a funny way of sneaking up on you when you least expect it, like when your subway transfer actually aligns perfectly, a rare miracle that feels suspiciously like winning the lottery.

The first time I felt joy doing this—writing about relationships—wasn't under the glow of a perfectly Instagrammed moment or deep in a whirlwind romance. It was in a tiny Berlin café as I stared at my laptop, mid-rant about cuffing season for an online magazine that had commissioned me for my “relatable wit” (their words, though I held onto the compliment like a love letter). Little did I know, writing something I not only understood deeply but cared about was about to unlock a happiness I didn’t realize I’d missed.

Finding Joy in the Act of Relating

I’ve always been that guy—the one friends call at ungodly hours to break down texts line by poetic line, or to discuss whether a love interest’s “lol” was flirty or truly indifferent (spoiler: the “lol” is the Rorschach test of texting). Growing up in Brooklyn Heights, surrounded by eclectic neighbors and family friends who believed that conversations about feelings should be as regular as breathing, I unconsciously developed a knack for decoding not just my own tangled emotions but everyone else’s too.

Still, I never saw emotional relatability as productive career fuel. Writing was one thing—in college, I was the guy who’d rip apart Crime and Punishment to argue that Raskolnikov really just needed therapy (which, truly, he did). But writing about relationships? To hold a mirror to other people’s messy, complicated, yet deeply beautiful attempts at love? That was where responsibility met art.

So, there I was in Berlin, hyper-caffeinated on espresso because “adventurous Julian” believed being in a European café required consuming nothing but espresso. I tapped out the half-declarative, half-pleading words: “Love is messy. Love is funny. It’s both a thunderstorm and a sitcom. Everyone thinks they’re Chandler, but honestly? Most of us are Ross.” (And truly, is there a sadder sitcom analogy?)

By the time I added a few actionable-but-cheeky tips about avoiding holiday-season desperation hookups (looking at you, “fellowship of the ring-buyers”), I realized I was smiling. Really smiling—the kind where if someone caught you, you’d awkwardly pretend to be reading memes instead of your own work.

Why? Because for the first time in years, I wasn’t just writing for a grade, a paycheck, or an idea of success. I was writing for people.

Realizing Sharing Stories is Powerful

Relationships are something we all share—like that embarrassing drunk-karaoke memory you wish you could delete, or the unspoken understanding that double texting someone you’re crushing on is both incredibly brave and wildly terrifying. Writing to crack open this universal experience meant stepping into something simultaneously connective and intimate.

Take one reader who messaged me a week after that article went live. She’d recently been ghosted—thankfully, not on Halloween, though that would’ve been on-brand—and wrote to say my “thunderstorm and sitcom” metaphor helped her laugh about her situation for the first time. She thanked me for making her feel seen—so much so that she forwarded the piece to her best friend with the subject line: “It me.”

That message hit me harder than I expected. It was like I’d hit publish and accidentally thrown out a lifeline I didn’t even know I was holding. And here’s the most surprising part: it felt good. Really good.

Joy is About Connection, Not Perfection

I think we often get this twisted idea about joy—that it has to come in these life-changing revelations or Instagrammable milestones. For me, it wasn’t landing my first published article or even signing a deal. It was noticing how words that felt deeply personal landed softly for complete strangers. No grand romance or international escapades, just genuine, meaningful connection with people I might never meet.

Here’s what I learned that day, and here’s where it might hit home for you: joy doesn’t wait for perfect circumstances. It doesn’t demand that you have your life together or that you’ve “won” some imagined prize. It often sneaks in when you’re wrapped up in being present: creating, trusting, and throwing your wildly imperfect self into something you care about.

What This Means for You

So, if you’ve been waiting to find joy but think you need to schedule it like a dentist appointment, let me save you the trouble. Start by thinking about what makes you laugh when you’re alone, what opens up that soft, glowy curiosity in your chest.

Some ideas to get you going:

  • Share yourself authentically. Whether that means jotting down musings in a journal, telling your best friend something you've been holding onto, or even texting your crush that meme that made you think of them, expressing yourself is a joy seed—and seeds grow.
  • Relish the mundane. The best moments are rarely the planned ones. For me, it wasn’t aiming for the “big break” that made me happy—it was typing a small truth about cuffing season that resonated more deeply than I expected.
  • Engage with people, not just ideas. Share your thoughts without assuming they’ll need to feel “perfect” or profound. You’ll bond with others faster than you think.

Finding Your Kind of Joy

Joy doesn’t need to be fancy, planned, or competitive. It’s not about living up to an idealized version of yourself but about noticing what lights you up in real, everyday life. For me, writing came alive when I stopped seeing it as a chore or a career ladder to climb but as a way to connect with people like you.

The first time I felt joy writing about relationships, it wasn’t anything monumental. It wasn’t breaking into literary circles or drafting some epic novel. It was sitting in a café, laughing to myself over how everyone—everyone—thinks they’re less awkward than they really are in romantic situations.

It was realizing that if my personal awkwardness could make people feel less alone, then maybe, just maybe, I was onto something.

So, the next time you’re chasing joy, take a breath. Look around. Think about the thing you’d gladly do with no audience, no applause. Joy is sneaky, yes, but most of all, it’s waiting for you. Sometimes, you just have to start typing first.