The first time I felt joy doing this, I wasn’t standing on some metaphorical grand stage under a spotlight. I wasn’t being handed a shiny award or breaking ground on a big, impressive “moment.” Instead, I was sitting on a rock—yes, a rock—by a tidepool, with a notebook in my lap and not a soul around. My joy was quiet and sneaky, like a seagull hovering over an unattended sandwich. I almost missed it.

That’s the funny thing about joy: it doesn’t always announce itself with fireworks. Sometimes it’s that subtle buzz you didn’t even realize was there until after the fact. And for me, that buzz showed up the first time I let myself write about something I actually cared about—and didn’t care who was reading it.

The Rocky (Literally) Start

Let me set the stage. It was a Sunday morning in La Jolla, my hometown, the kind of idyllic California day they put in sunscreen commercials. I had been nursing an existential crisis of sorts: my Marine Biology degree was halfway complete, but my textbooks felt more like weights than wings. I wanted to love what I was studying, truly. I had spent most of my childhood scampering between tidepools and naming hermit crabs like they were Pokémon. (Snappy, Pinchy, and Larry if you’re curious.)

But staring at pages of species classifications wasn’t the heart-pounding love affair I’d imagined. So, like any slightly melodramatic 20-something, I packed a bag, grabbed a notebook, and went to the place where I’d always felt most at home: the ocean.

That morning, the tide was low, pulling the water back like a magician revealing secret wonders. The tidepools were alive with sea anemones gently waving their tentacles. I always imagined them like tiny, chill underwater DJs playing ambient beats no one could hear. As I sat there, aimlessly doodling in my notebook, I decided to write—not about the chemical composition of seawater or the migration habits of squid—but about how tidepools made me feel.

When Words Clicked

I scribbled furiously, describing barnacles like little castles and mussels as the dining halls of the sea. My pen didn’t hesitate—it just went. It felt a bit like I’d unknotted something tied too tightly. When I finished, I realized I wasn’t writing for anyone. Not a professor, not my mom, and not some future reader. I was writing because it felt like the truest way to capture a place and a moment that I loved.

That pure, unfiltered joy hit me like an unexpected wave—one that soaks your jeans and makes you swear but also laugh. Could writing be more than a sidenote in my life? Could it be the thing instead of the thing I did when I wasn’t doing the thing I thought I was supposed to be doing? (Yes, I know that sentence is a mess. But life is messy—stay with me.)

The “Whoa” Moment That Came Later

For a while, I didn’t realize what a big deal that morning was. I tucked the notebook away and went back to my regularly scheduled Marine Biology grind. But something had shifted. Writing crept into everything I did. If I wasn’t sketching diagrams of coral reefs for class, I was writing about how corals felt like ancient storytellers, whispering their histories through layers of hard calcium skeletons. I daydreamed about becoming the Rachel Carson of quirky beach essays.

By the time I finally switched my major to Creative Writing (cue small internal freakout), I remembered that morning by the tidepool. The way I’d let myself just be without worrying about whether or not I was “good enough” to write. Without overthinking it. Without needing it to be perfect.

What This Means for You

Now, maybe your joy isn’t sitting on a rock journaling about seaweed (though if it is, huzzah—we are kindred spirits). Maybe it’s baking experimental chocolate-chipotle cookies in your kitchen until midnight, or painting watercolor portraits of your dog, Winston, in various historical costumes. Regardless, here’s what I learned from my tidepool epiphany:

  • Follow the Buzz: Joy can be subtle. It doesn’t always present itself like a rom-com montage where everything clicks and Hallelujah plays. Pay attention to moments when you lose track of time and feel oddly, quietly content. That’s joy’s way of saying, “Hey, you might really like this.”

  • Who Cares If You’re “Good”? We sabotage ourselves when we worry too much about whether we’re skilled at something right away. Imagine if baby sea lions only learned to swim when they were Olympic-caliber. Allow yourself to be delightfully messy at first.

  • Get Quiet (But Stay Curious): Strip away the noise of expectation—your parent’s voice saying, “Is that really a stable career choice?” The social media pressure to turn every passion into a side hustle. Let yourself just do the thing and see if it feels right.

  • Your Joy Can Change: What lit you up five years ago might be totally different from what lights you up today—and that’s okay. Growth isn’t linear, and we aren’t wired to stick with one passion forever like a weird, joyless factory setting.

The Encouraging Conclusion (Cue Acoustic Guitar)

Looking back on that day at the tidepool, there wasn’t a single lightning bolt that told me, “Aha, this is your life’s purpose.” But there was joy. Small, sustainable, unmistakable joy. And maybe that’s enough to start with: letting yourself chase the things that make you quietly but undeniably happy.

So here’s my challenge to you: Think about the last time you felt that buzz—when time evaporated and you could’ve happily kept going for hours. And then, do it again. Whether or not it makes sense to anyone else. Whether or not it has a career path stamped all over it.

Because while joy doesn’t always shout, when you follow its whispers, it usually leads you exactly where you’re meant to go. And if it happens to involve tidepools, well, I’ve got a notebook and an extra rock waiting for you.