Inspiration is a funny thing. It doesn’t always hit you in the middle of a stunning sunrise or during a particularly profound moment in your day. Sometimes, it sneaks up on you in the most unremarkable places—like a grocery store parking lot or, in my case, an awkward family potluck featuring way too much Jello salad (Utah staples, anyone?). I’d like to think I’m fairly well-versed in inspiration, having built my career and sense of self around deep introspection, mismatched cultural ideals, and the occasional existential crisis. But let me tell you, nothing prepared me for the wisdom that came from observing... a duck.

Yes, a duck. Specifically, a mallard that waddled its way into my life one breezy fall afternoon. Quiet, unassuming, and so hilariously determined not to fit in, he became my unexpected muse for navigating relationships—and, ultimately, life.

Ducks Don’t Fake It: Lessons in Authenticity

I found myself in Liberty Park one crisp Tuesday, fresh from yet another community writing workshop that felt more like group therapy. All I wanted was a little sunlight, maybe a clarity-inducing bench moment. Instead, I got Harold. (If you’re wondering, yes, I named him. First rule of unexpected inspiration: anthropomorphize instantly.)

Harold wasn’t like the other ducks. While the rest of his flock paddled in formation across the pond, Harold stood on the bank, staring out at the water like he was debating life choices. Should I swim? Should I not swim? Who even decided ducks need to swim? These are the vibes Harold gave off, and I respected him for it.

Watching Harold hold his ground made me realize something: we tend to bend ourselves in relationships, sometimes out of fear of not belonging. Maybe you laugh a little too hard at a joke that wasn’t funny or pretend to like pineapple on pizza just because someone else does. The Harold-ish part of me—the part born from years of questioning tradition and carving my path—reminded me that the effort to belong isn’t worth losing yourself. The right people (and ducks) will paddle alongside you, quirks and all.

Actionable Takeaway:

  • Be your Harold. If you hate rom-coms, say so. If you’d rather hike alone than join your partner's weekly trivia night, honor that. Authenticity is never embarrassing, but pretending to vibe with something that makes you miserable? That’s a flop (pun absolutely intended).

Wandering Is Okay: The Art of Duck Detours

Harold didn’t just stand on the pond bank that afternoon. To my amusement, he also followed his curiosity in ways other ducks didn’t. He wandered over to someone’s abandoned picnic basket, pecked at the strap, then leisurely waddled across a path to investigate a rogue feather. Meanwhile, the flock stayed exactly where they were, content in their synchronized strokes.

In relationships, there’s often pressure to “stay in formation.” Move too far outside the norm—too many solo hobbies, an unconventional timeline for commitment—and people might start asking if something’s wrong. But Harold taught me there’s beauty in detours. A curiosity left ignored can turn into resentment or regret, both of which have the power to derail even the most promising partnerships.

Whether it’s pursuing a niche interest, traveling solo, or just taking a few steps away from a group dynamic, wandering doesn’t mean you’ve lost direction. It means you’re adding dimension. Every time Harold waddled into a new corner of the park, it felt like a reminder: curiosity enriches—not threatens—connection.

Actionable Takeaway:

  • Embrace detours. Relationships thrive when both people bring their most curious, rounded selves to the table. Want to start a pottery class even though your partner doesn’t get the hype? Do it. Go full Harold.

Quack Your Truth (Even When It’s Hard)

At one point during my Harold vigil, another duck joined him on the bank. This newcomer quacked a little too enthusiastically, got no response, and promptly waddled back to their group with a disapproving shake of their tail feathers. Harold? Unmoved. He remained statuesque, watching the pond like it held the secrets to the universe.

It was the perfect showcase of something I’ve learned only after several failed relationships and about 7.5 heartfelt diary entries: trying too hard to connect can sometimes push your partner further away. Turns out, there’s beauty in leaving space for natural rhythms to develop—the kind of space where both people grow at their own pace. Much like Harold chose solitude over blending in with the loud, opinionated quacks of the group, we sometimes need to step back and let true connections emerge organically.

Actionable Takeaway:

  • Communicate honestly, but don’t force-feed. If someone isn’t receptive to your love language right away, don’t see it as rejection. Authenticity will either draw them to you or show that they’re not your Harold, and that’s okay.

Harold and the Big Leap: Choosing Joy

Near the end of my Liberty Park adventure, Harold finally dove into the pond. And when he did—let me tell you—it was not elegant. He belly-flopped like me during my ill-fated attempt to cannonball at a high school pool party. He flailed. He half-swim, half-splashed his way into the water while the flock watched from a safe, socially acceptable distance.

But here’s the thing: when Harold resurfaced, he seemed... joyful. He quacked once, shook his feathers, and glided off with newfound purpose. And I realized I’d been holding my breath, rooting for him like he was an underdog in an indie sports movie.

That unpolished leap was pure authenticity. It was joy wrapped in awkwardness, a too-rare combination in a world that prizes perfection. Watching Harold splash into his messy joy felt like a quiet nudge: stop waiting for the perfect moment to take your risks. The awkward, weird, vulnerable leaps are often how we find our happiness—and, honestly, they make better stories.

Actionable Takeaway:

  • Belly-flop into joy. Make the confession. Try the new thing. Embarrass yourself a little. Life is too short to tiptoe around the water.

Ducks, Dating, and the Power of the Waddle

I left the park that day with a newfound appreciation for mallards and an unexpected roadmap for navigating human connections. Harold didn’t inspire me because he was graceful or successful or even remotely functional by societal standards. He inspired me because he was himself—wholeheartedly, unapologetically, awkwardly himself.

And if a slightly confused duck can embrace his quirks, find joy in flopping, and stick to his authenticity, what’s stopping us? Harold reminded me that inspiration isn’t always monumental. Sometimes it’s just a little waddle of courage, a small choice to live true to who you are. And if there’s one takeaway from all this, it’s that you—quirks, belly flops, detours, and all—are more than enough for the right flock.

So go ahead, channel your inner Harold. Quack proudly. Waddle boldly. And don’t be afraid to ruffle a few proverbial feathers along the way.