What Am I Passionate About?
One of my quiet superpowers is that I don’t subscribe to the idea that passion has to be a singular thing. And I definitely don’t believe it needs to become your job. In fact, turning your deepest passions into a career is… well, a great way to murder them.
If you love something—gardening, painting, reading—why monetize it? Why turn it into something you have to do, instead of something you get to do? That kind of pressure can squeeze the joy out like over-wrung laundry. Burnout doesn’t care how much you used to love something—it just shows up, kicks its feet on your coffee table, and stays too long.
That’s why I don’t tie passion to a single thing. I thread it into the way I live. I can garden because dirt smells like childhood. I can paint because it helps me breathe. I can read without turning it into an “online community” (insert ominous algorithmic whisper). Would it be fun to get paid to read all day? Sure. But I don’t need a paycheck to make what I love valid.
To me, passion is a way of being. When I wake up, I try to do it with some kind of reverence—not a big motivational speech, just a small internal nod. I woke up. I’m still here. That counts for something. (Especially on the days when I really, really didn’t want to.)
Making breakfast for my kids? Passion. Not in the “nutritionally balanced meal prep influencer” way, but in the quiet “you matter” way. Sometimes it’s heart-shaped pancakes. Sometimes it’s a toaster waffle launched directly onto a plate while whispering a small apology to the gods of breakfast. Still passion.
When I check in on someone I care about, I mean it. I don’t send “Good morning :)” unless I mean good, and even then—it’s a gamble. Not everyone wakes up okay. Passion, in this context, means noticing. It means not walking past someone’s quiet sadness just because they said “I’m fine.” (We all know that line deserves an Oscar.)
Also—and this is important—passion is not always big energy. Sometimes it’s Red Bull at 6 a.m. and the kind of determination that smells like fear and dry shampoo. It’s making space for your people when you’re already empty. It’s dragging yourself upright because you promised yourself you would. Especially on the crap days. Maybe only on the crap days.
For me, there’s this mirror thing I do. It started in lucid dreams—back when I used to realize I was dreaming by finding a mirror and seeing… well, not exactly myself. Sometimes someone else. Sometimes no one. These days, the real mirror check is simpler. I look. I breathe. I don’t expect anything profound—but sometimes the look back is enough. (Mild surprise: still me.)
That’s what passion means to me. Not a title. Not a brand. Not a life plan.
It’s how you move through a Wednesday.
It’s what you carry into the small things no one claps for.
It’s your heartbeat, even when you’re over it.
Sometimes quiet. Sometimes messy. Always human.
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