I was eight years old the first time I saw someone “mean mug” joy out of a room. You know the look—a twisted blend of skepticism and irritation aimed at anything remotely cheerful. It was a birthday party, and the birthday boy’s uncle, sipping a Coke he clearly didn’t want to buy, grumbled something about “all this racket.” At the time, I didn’t have the words to describe it, but I felt it: joy can make folks uncomfortable. And maybe that’s why, for much of my life, I was afraid to lean into it.

I’m not talking about excitement or fleeting happiness—the loud, candy-coated kind you can slap on an Instagram post. I mean that rare, all-consuming joy that sits in your chest like a warm secret. The kind that demands you be fully present, unbothered by what anyone else thinks. The kind that comes when you stop asking for permission to feel good.

For me, that moment of joyful surrender came later in life—holding a pen in my hand, trying to make sense of my feelings on something bigger than me.

The Accidental Epiphany

To back up a bit, I didn’t grow up dreaming of becoming a writer. As a kid from Beaumont, Texas, my ambitions were practical: be somebody respectable with a steady paycheck and maybe a shot at central air. Writing wasn’t a “real job.” It was something you did in English class before folding the paper into a cootie catcher. But I always had words in me. I just didn’t understand their value yet.

Flash forward to my late twenties. By then, I was teaching high school sociology and spending my nights trying (and failing) to convince myself that the steady job was enough. Don’t get me wrong—I loved my students. But something about the rhythm of my days felt like wearing a shirt that didn’t quite fit. I thought maybe I needed better hobbies, so I started journaling. Harmless, right?

Y’all. When I say journaling unlocked something, I mean it cracked open a floodgate. What started as sharp, one-line observations about my bad dates or grading mishaps grew into long-winded essays filled with feelings I wasn’t even sure were mine. Somewhere between complaining about Houston traffic and recounting a particularly awkward moment in a Target aisle, I realized I wasn’t just venting; I was carving out space to feel seen.

What tipped me over the edge—the moment joy stopped knocking and threw the door wide open—was when I got the courage to share something I’d written. I remember emailing a piece to my best friend, half-thinking he’d skim it and pat me on the back like a kid presenting their crayon doodle of Batman. Instead, he called me up, voice cracking, and said, “Marc, this hit me in a way I didn’t know I needed.” At that moment, pen in hand, face wet from happy tears, I knew: writing wasn’t just something I did. It was something I lived for.

Joy as a Radical Act

Here’s the interesting thing about finding joy in your passion: it’s radical. Deciding to pour energy into something that doesn’t come with a guaranteed payout—or worse, might make people question your sanity—is scary as hell. But it’s also one of life’s most worthwhile risks.

I remember when I first told my parents I wanted to write full-time. My dad, ever pragmatic, gave me a look that said, “Now, Marc...” in that drawn-out way Southern fathers do when they’re trying to figure out how to save you from yourself. My mother tried to play the diplomat, asking, “But isn’t teaching more stable?”

And they weren’t wrong. Writing doesn’t usually pay the light bill, especially not at first. But for the first time in my life, I felt that rare, unequivocal internal clarity: this is what I’m meant to do. And clarity like that? It’s priceless.

Finding Your Own Joyful Thing

Now, I know not everyone reading this wants to burn their 9-to-5 and start penning sonnets or screenplays. Your passion might be gardening, learning Italian, or mastering the art of homemade pasta (and if that’s you, I’ll be over for dinner at seven). Passion doesn’t have to change your career or your entire life. It just needs to feel true to you.

So if you’re wondering how to tap into your joy, here are a few things that helped me:

  1. Listen to the Thing That Keeps Whispering to You.
    You know the one. That quiet voice you manage to drown out with day-to-day busyness. It could be an urge to paint, to dance, to revamp your aunt’s faded Etsy store. Whatever it is, lean in for a moment and give it space to grow.

  2. Start Small.
    Writing didn’t come to me as a published book. It came as scribbled notebook reflections I thought no one would ever see. Give yourself permission to start small, to be imperfect, and to test the water before committing to the deep dive.

  3. Redefine Success.
    It took me years to realize success isn’t about applause or a gold star. Joy lives in the process. If something fills your cup, whether or not it leads to a multimillion-dollar whatever, it’s worth pursuing.

  4. Tell the Negative Voices to Pipe Down.
    Whether it’s family, coworkers, or your own inner critic, there will always be someone who doesn’t get it. That’s okay—they don’t need to. Joy isn’t meant to be universally understood. It’s meant to belong, unapologetically, to you.

  5. Find Your People.
    A supportive community makes all the difference. I’m endlessly grateful for friends, mentors, and even strangers who have celebrated my writing with me. Find folks who’ll cheer for your wins and stick around when you hit a wall.

The Joy Ripple Effect

The thing I didn’t expect about finding joy in writing—or any passion, really—is how contagious it is. When I started living in my purpose, the energy I carried into my relationships shifted. I became bolder in love, more open to connection, and less afraid of rejection. (Well, mostly.) The vulnerability I practiced on the page started showing up in real life—messy and wonderful and worth every second.

So, if you’re holding back from chasing your joyful thing because you’re worried it won’t pay off or won’t be “enough,” let me be the friend who tells you: It’s enough just because it’s yours.

Joy isn’t performative. It doesn’t need filters, hashtags, or anyone else’s approval. You don’t have to justify it to the mean-mug uncle in the corner. You just need to feel it—fully, often, and without shame. I found my joy somewhere between messy pen strokes and the soft click of a keyboard. Maybe yours is waiting for you in the dirt, the kitchen, or a long-forgotten dream.

Wherever it is, go and get it. Because once you feel it? Trust me—you won’t ever want to let it go.