The Moment It Began

I wish I could say my passion for writing arrived in some cinematic, orchestra-swelled moment—like an epiphany at a windswept Parisian café or a powerful revelation under Alexandria’s golden sun. Alas, it was far less Audrey Hepburn romantic and far more rom-com awkward. It was the year I moved to Paris, and I was ten years old, clinging to my tiny Egyptian accent like a treasured secret. If you’ve ever been the “new kid,” you’ll relate to this: I wanted people to notice me, but also not notice me too much.

One day during recess, in a half-hearted attempt to fit in, I wrote a poem about the chaos of moving to France. I scribbled it in my notebook and showed it to a girl in my class who wore perfectly coordinated outfits and could rollerblade without falling. To my complete horror, she read it aloud to a circle of classmates. But instead of mockery, there was murmured approval. “It’s kind of good,” someone said. I still don’t know if they meant it, but that moment planted a seed—a quiet promise to myself: you can say things on paper you’d never dare to say out loud.

Putting Feelings on Paper

Writing became my first love before I even knew what “love” really meant. Growing up bicultural was like learning to dance to two completely different beats. At home, I lived in a vibrant symphony of Arabic: spices simmering in a cast-iron tagine, snippets of Umm Kulthum echoing from the radio, the rhythmic hum of my family’s debates (about everything, always). At school, I tried to pirouette to the soft piano keys of French social cues: polite nods, immaculate handwriting, crisp baguettes. Navigating the space between these worlds could feel like walking a tightrope in heels—exhilarating and precarious all at once. Writing became my safety net.

In my notebook, I could explain the thrill of Alexandria’s salty sea breeze and the alien grandeur of the Eiffel Tower, the impossible messiness of wanting to belong to two places but feeling like a tourist in both. Writing made the contradictions make sense—not that they were “solved,” but at least they fit neatly on a page.

I didn’t know then that my passion was sneaking up on me like a slow-burn romance. And like a crush that becomes a grand love story, writing kept insistently tugging at my sleeve, no matter how much life tried to distract me.

Paris, Protest Signs, and Prose

Fast forward a few years, and I’m living in London, wearing black turtlenecks like I’m the fourth member of a broody jazz trio. I was studying Middle Eastern Studies and balancing an increasingly cluttered schedule—attending protests, going to lectures, and getting distracted by the occasional charming bookstore owner. (No, he was not single. Yes, my life sometimes feels like a subplot in a Nora Ephron film.)

It was during this time that my writing turned from introspection to action. Working at an NGO focusing on women’s rights, I learned that words could raise voices, ignite movements, and open doors that had been jammed shut for centuries. I started telling stories—both fiction and non-fiction—about women navigating these spaces that felt impossibly tight but were still full of possibility. Crafting those stories felt like holding up a mirror: the reflection wasn’t always pretty, but honesty rarely is.

I realized my passion wasn’t just about weaving words on a page; it was about weaving connections between people. Whether it was writing about cross-cultural relationships or spotlighting activists in Istanbul, storytelling wasn’t simply a hobby—it was a mission.

Passion as the Ultimate Relationship

Here’s the thing about falling in love with your passion: it’s not always romantic. It’s a lot like dating someone with a completely unpredictable personality. Some days, writing feels like the soulful, café date where everything just clicks. Other days, it feels like the chaotic argument over what toppings to put on a pizza. It doesn’t always cooperate, and it certainly isn’t flawless.

There have been times I’ve tried to stray. I almost gave myself over to practicality once, flirting with the idea of staying in a more “stable” line of work. But in the way a late-night text from an ex stirs all those buried feelings, writing pulled me back in. Even when I’ve tried to ignore it—when I’ve stared at blank Word docs for hours or filed rejection emails into folders labeled “Well, At Least I Tried”—it hasn’t let me go.

The beauty of a passion, much like a meaningful relationship, is that it challenges you to grow. Writing constantly asks me to dig deeper. It demands I have something to say even when silence feels safer. It pushes me to examine my flaws, my values, and even the messy soup of my identity.

How to Find (And Nurture) Your Passion

Not sure how to fall in love with your passion? I have a secret: your passion usually loves you first. It’s been sending little signals the whole time, like a friend trying to nudge you toward a person at a party you’d click with.

But here’s a non-exhaustive guide to recognizing and nurturing it:

  1. Listen to Your Gut: It often starts with a flicker of curiosity or a small moment of joy. Maybe it’s the way your heart skips when you bake a new recipe or how easily you lose track of time sketching doodles during meetings. Pay attention to those moments—they’re breadcrumbs pointing you home.

  2. Get Uncomfortable: For me, writing meant being vulnerable, putting my once-hush-hush thoughts on display. Pursuing your own passion might feel equally strange at first. Don’t let the early awkwardness intimidate you; every great relationship deserves a little patience.

  3. Let It Evolve: Passions aren’t static, just like people. Writing started as my emotional outlet for living between cultures, but now it’s expanded into advocacy, storytelling, and a way to help others find connection. Passions breathe and grow if you give them space.

  4. Mess It Up Without Quitting: Your passion doesn’t expect perfection. Maybe the meal is over-salted; maybe your painting looks like something a toddler whipped up on five minutes of sleep. That’s okay. It’s less about how well you do it and more about how alive it makes you feel.

  5. Find Your Why: The deeper purpose behind your passion is where the gold lies. For me, it’s always been about bridging gaps—between cultures, people, and even between my own inner chaos and clarity. What “why” keeps your heart in the game?

The Takeaway

Falling in love with anything—a person, a passion, or even yourself—doesn’t happen all at once. It sneaks up on you in quiet moments, loud realizations, and a million small acts of showing up. Writing may not have chosen me with fireworks or a grand serenade, but it has been the most consistent love of my life.

And here’s my wish for anyone still searching for their passion (or for anyone who’s forgotten to nurture it): don’t be afraid to pick up the pen, the paintbrush, the microphone. Say what you need to say, even if you’re saying it to yourself. Falling in love with your passion isn’t about being perfect—it’s about being present.

Turns out, the truest relationships—whether with people or the things that light us up—aren’t about chasing a resolution. They’re about embracing the journey.