It hit me one humid afternoon in Miami, sometime before my college graduation but well after my creative writing dreams had rooted themselves into my psyche. I was sitting in Abuela’s backyard, a chaotic but magical garden of plátanos, jasmine blossoms, and mismatched lawn chairs. My mom was inside blasting Celia Cruz while arguing with my Tío over who made la mejor cafetera of espresso (spoiler: it’s my Tío, but don’t tell her that). The palo de mango was casting shade all over the makeshift table where my laptop sat, and I was furiously typing about generational trauma between bites of arroz con frijoles. And then, right there beneath that mango tree, I felt it—that rare, fizzling joy.

It wasn’t joy in the big, “fireworks over Disney castle” way. No, this was more subtle—a quiet knowing. What I was doing mattered. Somehow, stringing words together felt like patching together the stories that had been passed through whispered conversations at the dinner table or satirical remarks from my abuelo. For the first time ever, it clicked: writing wasn’t just something I wanted to do. It’s what I had to do—and I loved it.

A Passion Ignites in the Most Unexpected Places

So how does someone fall in love with their calling while being dive-bombed by mosquitos and drinking café Cubano that’s just shy of molten lava? It helps when your passion is steeped in the raw fabric of your life. In Miami, every corner feels like a story waiting to be told. You’ve got abuelos gossiping on cracked domino tables outside the supermarket, or the pastelito guy on the corner with gossip better than any telenovela plotline. You’re raised on anecdotes about survival, stubbornness, and, if your family is anything like mine, exaggerated (but hilarious) tales about how their guayaberas saved them from heartbreak.

It turns out, writing is a bit like a relationship—you don’t always appreciate it until you’re in the middle of it, thriving. Before that day in Abuela’s yard, I had danced around storytelling like flirting across the room at a house party. Admired it. Craved it. Even dabbled with it during midnight journal sessions. But it wasn’t until I sat there, rendering my family’s resilience into fictional arcs, that I fell all in.

Writer’s Joy in Action (and the Life Lessons It Taught Me)

Here’s the thing no one tells you, whether it’s about finding joy in writing or love itself: it sneaks up on you, and it’s messy. Sure, there are highlight moments that make for impressive Instagram captions or elevator pitches, but most of the magic comes when you’re knee-deep in the chaos.

What I learned under that Miami sun weren’t just lessons about writing. They were lessons about passion, commitment, and transformation. If you’re searching for joy—whether it’s in work, relationships, or yourself—here are three takeaways to chew on:

1. Passion Isn’t Always Loud—But Pay Attention When It Whispers

At the risk of sounding like every moody indie rom-com ever, joy doesn’t always announce itself with a glitter cannon. Sometimes, it’s quiet and rooted in the most ordinary things.

That moment of clarity in my grandmother’s backyard wasn’t some Hollywood epiphany, like when Julia Roberts dropped the “I’m just a girl, standing in front of a boy” line in Notting Hill. No, it felt more like a song you’ve always known playing softly in the background—you don’t notice at first, then suddenly, you’re humming along.

Trust the things you keep coming back to. The passions you just can’t shake. It could be food. Music. Fixing old cars. Or in my case, typing away under a mango tree while sweating like a contestant on Survivor.

2. Don’t Be Afraid to Write—Er, Live—Messy First Drafts

The first short story I wrote in Abuela’s yard was…well, let’s just say no Pulitzer judges were losing sleep over it. It was clunky and awkward, much like my first few attempts at flirting in high school. (Let’s not discuss the ill-timed ‘80s power ballad-inspired messages I once left on a crush’s answering machine.)

But you know what? Even the messy first drafts count. Whether it’s writing your story, figuring out where your relationship is headed, or trying your hand at a new passion, nothing has to be perfect off the bat. Actually, it shouldn’t be. Give yourself permission to fumble, edit, rewrite, and—most importantly—laugh at yourself along the way. Because there’s no joy in perfection, only pressure.

3. Share the Stories That Scare You the Most

Here’s the part where writing felt as terrifying as texting back “I like you too 🙃” after three hours of planning the perfect response: sharing my work.

Putting my family’s stories on paper felt sacred, but sharing them? Aye Dios. That took guts. What if no one liked them? Worse—what if I butchered the storytelling and had to face my abuelo’s infamous side-eye at family dinner?

But here’s the ultimate relationship truth, whether it’s to your dreams or another person: vulnerability is what deepens the connection. I learned this in writing by putting my most vulnerable thoughts out into the world. And guess what? They resonated. People didn’t see the flaws I was so worried about—they saw humanity. The more you lean into authenticity, the more others connect with it. That’s true for stories and love alike.

Finding Joy in Your Calling

The funny thing about joy is that it’s less about the results and more about the process. Writing hasn’t always been sunshine and cafecitos. I’ve had days where I stare at a blank screen until I hear “You still working on that?” from my roommate, or where I’ve scrolled through social media to avoid confronting a story idea that scares me a little too much. Similarly, relationships aren’t just fireworks and heart-eye emojis 24/7. They’re work, grit, vulnerability, and occasionally eating humble pie when you’re wrong (“You were right—he did make better coffee, Mami.”).

Here’s my takeaway: joy isn’t some unattainable mountaintop. It’s in the small, consistent moments. Finding joy in writing taught me to embrace the journey, whether words are pouring out effortlessly or feel like pulling teeth. And the same applies to the bonds we build—with others and with ourselves.

So if something keeps quietly tugging at you—a story you’ve always wanted to write, a skill you’ve always wanted to pick up, or even a relationship you want to nurture—lean in. The joy might show up like those first raindrops on a hot Miami afternoon, slow and easy, but when it does? You’re going to wonder why you didn’t start sooner.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s about time for another cafecito (and maybe a messy second draft).