The Moment the Curtain Rises

I’ve always been fascinated by the way some moments can slow down time. Not the kind of moments that seem to crawl with awkward silences and too-long pauses (we’ve all had a bad first date that felt like an eternity), but the ones that spread out in front of you like a standing ovation, filling every sense with meaning.

The first time I felt true joy doing what I love, it wasn’t when I finally held my debut novel in my hands or when I nabbed the byline for my favorite online publication (though that was a close second). It wasn’t even when a piece I’d written went semi-viral—a night that, to my dismay, played out a little less like a Hollywood movie and more like me nervously refreshing my phone while eating sushi in pajamas. The moment I knew my passion had planted roots in me came much earlier, in a way that was subtle yet as dazzling as the neon glow on a Las Vegas night.

It happened during my junior year at UNLV, at 1:17 a.m., on the floor of my barely-put-together dorm room.

Write Like Nobody’s Watching—Because They’re Not (Yet)

Let me paint the scene for you. It was mid-semester crunch time, and every college student in my life—roommates, classmates, that guy from poetry club I awkwardly crushed on—was busy, stressed, and surviving on some combination of caffeine and bad decisions. But I wasn’t grading mediocre papers for my TA gig or cramming for final exams. I was writing a short story for a class assignment, something loosely inspired by the lives of backup dancers I had met growing up in Vegas.

At first, it wasn’t going well. My laptop screen had more misspelled words than a reality TV contestant's Instagram bio, and there were so many cringy metaphors that I deeply considered throwing the whole Word document into the digital abyss forever. But somewhere in the middle of rewriting a paragraph for the seventh time, something shifted.

I don’t remember the exact sentence that flipped the switch, but suddenly, I felt like I was on fire—in a good way, not the kind that requires a fire extinguisher. The words were connecting in ways I hadn’t planned, lines were singing with emotion, and the characters in my head were alive, spilling their truths through my fingertips. It was like rediscovering your favorite childhood song but realizing it had a deeper meaning all along.

For someone like me, who grew up surrounded by showbiz but never walked the stage itself, it finally clicked why my parents and every other performer I knew kept showing up despite late nights and rejection. This was my version of the spotlight, my curtain call—even if the audience at that moment was nobody but my ancient carpet and a flickering desk lamp.

Finding Joy in the Process, Not the Outcome

Not to get too Eat, Pray, Love on you, but when you stop chasing the applause and start chasing the work itself, everything changes. That night taught me something I come back to often, whether I’m writing an article about relationships or perfecting dialogue between fictional characters. Creative joy doesn’t live in the shiny, post-worthy “look what I accomplished” moments. It lives in the messy process—the part where your back aches from sitting too long, where you question everything, and where life feels wonderfully, perfectly raw.

Here’s the thing: strip away the Strip, the sequins, and the spotlights, and Las Vegas is just a desert town, its beauty found in its flaws and persistence to thrive. I think passion is the same. You thrive not in the polished outcome, not in impressing someone on a first date or acing the elevator pitch, but in the vulnerable in-between where you embrace the grind because you love it.

Joy is a Sneaky Little Thing

I hear conversations all the time about how people don’t feel “passion” anymore and how joy seems to have ghosted them after one too many hard days. But here’s what I’ve learned: Joy won’t pull up in a limo. It’s not going to flash you its room key in a five-star hotel or serenade you with Sinatra’s “Fly Me to the Moon.” Nope, joy is super chill, almost passive-aggressive. The first time it showed up for me? It came disguised as a sleepless night on a cheap laptop.

And you know what? Falling in love with your work—your passion, your craft—has a lot in common with falling in love with a person. It’s rarely perfect or convenient. Instead, it surprises you when you least expect it. It’s those moments where you stop overthinking and actually feel (which is also excellent dating advice, by the way).

What This Means for You

It doesn’t matter if your “thing” is writing, baking, building cosplay armor, or collecting very obscure vintage keychains (hey, no judgment, we’re all quirky here). The first time you notice joy in it, real joy—not the external validation or the Instagram likes—it will probably catch you off guard. Here are a few ways to let yourself feel it:

  1. Let Curiosity Lead: Like your best friend dragging you into a karaoke duet when you swore you weren’t singing tonight, joy can surprise you when you put too much pressure aside. Dive into what fascinates you without always worrying about the endgame.
  2. Be Willing to Suck (At First): Scratchy, awkward first drafts are the backbone of every masterpiece. The same goes for painting, performing, and yes, even understanding someone you’re newly dating. Embrace the ugly and keep going.
  3. Notice the Flow State: Feeling like you lose track of time? Like everything’s clicking even though you’re sitting in an old hoodie eating cold pizza? That’s joy, dressed in sweatpants.
  4. Detach from Outcomes: Sure, finishing something feels good—but don’t let the craving for perfection stop you from enjoying the journey.

The Encore

That first moment of joy back in my college dorm planted something permanent in me. It’s still the feeling I chase whenever life gets complicated or messy (as it always does). And I’d be lying if I said I don’t sometimes get caught up worrying about outcomes, whether it’s a story idea or the text that’s sitting in “read” when you’re hoping for a reply that doesn’t come.

But more and more, I’ve learned to trust the flow. Trust the imperfect joy of expressing what’s yours, of doing the work that makes you feel like, for a second, you exist beyond clocks and expectations. Joy might not hire a publicist or steal the spotlight, but when it sneaks up on you—and it will—you’ll know. And it’s worth celebrating every single time the curtain rises.