The First Time I Felt Joy Doing This

Growing up in a household where everyone was a storyteller—whether they knew it or not—was both inspiring and overwhelming. Every family party was an Olympic battle of wits or tales, with tias one-upping each other over who brought the best arroz con pollo to funerals, and cousins retelling childhood chisme like some kind of survivalist folklore. I loved it, but I never thought I had a story worth telling. Or at least, I wasn’t confident anyone besides my mom (maybe) would care to listen.

That changed somewhere in the middle of a Houston summer, while standing ankle-deep in a flood of my own nerves. Houston natives know summers here have three modes: blistering sunshine, unbearable humidity, and thunderstorms that make you question your life decisions. This day had all three at once because of course it did. I clutched a notepad in one hand and a borrowed recorder in the other, convinced I was about to flunk out of existence. My very first story for the school newspaper was due, and I was at a neighborhood mercado to cover cultural festivals.

Here’s the thing: When you’re staring down a group of strangers in a place that smells like fried empanadas and freshly blended mangonadas, your brain doesn’t exactly cooperate. I remember standing there, trying to hype myself up. You interviewed people before, Ileana. OK, sure, those people were my cousins during holiday parties about whether tamales should be wrapped in banana leaves or corn husks, but same mechanics… right?

The fear didn’t really ease when one vendor, a Cuban man selling cafecito and pastelitos, side-eyed me like he wasn’t sure I was old enough to vote. “¿Tú escribes?” he asked as if the typewriter was probably still upstairs. But I took a deep breath, asked my question, and somehow, after a pause long enough to make me sweat through my shirt, he cracked a grin and went off on an animated spree about his secret to the perfect espresso (spoiler: Cuban coffee requires attitude as much as a blend).


When Words and Home Collide

That’s when it happened. Right there, with his words tumbling out as if he finally found an audience for his coffee philosophy. Something clicked. Not just that I liked writing. I needed it—like cafecito itself.

Growing up in Houston’s East End, the melting pot was my normal. It’s where Mexican, Cuban, Salvadoran, Vietnamese, and Black American cultures collide over late-night food trucks and never-ending Tejano vs. rap music debates. I’ve always loved that people’s stories, histories, and identities show up in what they create—whether it’s their music, food, or even the way they greet neighbors with a “What’s up, mija?” But that afternoon at the mercado, it dawned on me that writing could bridge the distance between these small but deeply magical parts of life.

When that cafecito vendor told me his story, it wasn’t just an interview—it felt like he was passing me a torch. Like he trusted me to preserve this part of him, to share it in a way that another person could taste his joy. And, let me tell you, capturing someone else’s passion and seeing it shine on a page? It’s addictive. Maybe even as addictive as freshly fried churros.


Joy in the Imperfections

Don’t get me wrong—early attempts barely scraped mediocre status. When the article came out, I spent hours overanalyzing every sentence. Did I spell “pastelitos” right? Were my descriptions cheesy? At one point, I became obsessed with whether people would understand my comparison of homemade plantain chips to “little golden sunshines you can’t eat just one of.” Now that I think about it, I stand by that.

But even with the flaws (and there were plenty), I felt something powerful: joy. That unstoppable, chest-bursting realization that this was my thing. And let me tell you, finding that thing—whatever it is—can feel like winning the lottery where the cash prize is your own fulfillment. You don’t win it overnight, and there’s a little imposter syndrome dog-paddling in your head the whole time. But eventually, the joy breaks through and drowns out the doubts.


The Hidden Power of Connecting Through Passion

Sometimes, we think of joy as this grand, impossible-to-miss thing, like fireworks in the middle of the night. But other times, it’s subtle. Quiet. It sneaks up on you while you're in the middle of doing the work—getting messy with it, failing a little, finding your footing.

It’s the moment you see a person light up as they share their story—or if dating or relationships are your thing, it’s that first time you realize you actually enjoy getting to know someone instead of just performing that “perfect first date” act. You know, the one where you laugh too hard at a bad joke and say, “Me too!” to things you don’t even like. True joy has nothing to do with getting all the details right or sticking to a playbook. It’s about connection. It’s about showing up fully, even when your voice shakes or your hands tremble.


Finding Your Cafecito Moment

Maybe your joy won’t come from interviewing vendors or obsessing over word choice. That’s cool—cafecito moments look different for everyone. They might come through teaching, cooking, building, dancing, or designing worlds out of thin air.

Here’s how to find it:

  • Push Yourself Out of the Usual: Fear likes to sit shotgun when you’re stepping into the unknown. But staying just a little uncomfortable? That’s where growth lives. If your art or work doesn’t scare you a little, it’s likely not pushing your boundaries.
  • Connection Over Perfection: Whether it’s a new project or a new relationship, aim for real first. The rest will follow. Joy has no patience for surface-level fluff.
  • Own Who You Are: I almost didn’t go to the mercado that day because I was convinced no one cared enough to hear me tell their stories. Turns out, I was wrong. The best breakthroughs happen when you stop telling yourself no.

Joy Is a Journey, Not a Payoff

The cafecito vendor moved his cart years ago, and I’m pretty sure the article I wrote that day got tossed into some recycling bin. But the joy hasn’t left. It’s still here every time I sit down to write, or listen to a stranger pour their heart out, or show up for someone in my life and remember: storytelling isn’t about me. It’s about sharing in the experience of living.

Joy isn’t what comes after success. It’s found in the little moments where you stop trying to be perfect and just let yourself be seen. That’s when the magic happens. And when it does, trust me—it’s better than any golden plantain chip. Real life always is.