doing passion differently
4th October, 2025
I used to think that passion was, well, passion. A burning heart, hours fiercely poured into a project, epic rabbit hole deep dives and the constant thirst to need to know or have more. It was akin to having tunnel vision, drive and devotion. But sometimes words don’t find their meaning until you’ve hit their limit, and what I thought was passion, was obsession. Unhealthy and all-consuming. If it crosses into obsession, it’s not a true striving that is fueling the heart, it’s fear. And that was me. Only in working on calming my nervous system down for the past 21 months, did I start to realise the difference.
There’s a big researcher girl in me. The one that as soon as she latches onto a new item to put in her treasure box, she spends hours diving deep into it, coming up for air months later suddenly knowing everything there is to know. It happened with great makeup/skincare obsession so many of us fell into in the 2010s (when I suddenly became my group’s makeup artist and skincare advisor), finishing Harry Potter and turning every charades/trivia/pictionary night into a Potterverse clue, and so obsessed with teenage mags I was mad when someone had read or bought something without me. I was a hungry otter and fiercely protective and equally defensive about the things I loved. Quickly it was labelled as passion by those around me and it was stored as such in my pre-therapy era dictionary. With such a positive light cast on it, I never questioned it. And never saw the downfalls of my not-so-kind-of obsessive behaviour.
While I’m proud of my researcher mode, this button has a cyclical burn out ending. Obsession has its deep highs and deep lows, it sparkles so high but when it leads to a crash out, you wonder where all your time went. Till you dive in again. This cycle is so consistent, it becomes your version of consistency. And that was me, gleefully going for gold to then crashing out, most especially when it came to my up and down career life and inevitably, my relationships.
And that was when the piano finally started falling on my head.
Maybe this wasn’t passion. Maybe this was, addiction.
Dopamine highs and post-dopamine lows.
Questioning how I did passion was like questioning my whole identity. How could I be anyone different to the girl that listened to her Maria Kerry tape her uncle gave her over and over again when she was 7? (Tell me you know who this artist’s real name is! Haha) I had always been her. I was always so proud of it, and maybe even smugly so (no, I was really smug). It was how I related to people and looked for it in the people around me. Who would I be and who would I connect to if this limb was amputated?
But I couldn’t unsee its cycle anymore. There had to be another way and I had to let this wired up version go. If life was going to be more boring then so be it, the rollercoaster wasn’t going to be my choice anymore.
In the new peace and the new quiet that my own self and life is becoming now, unexpectedly, I am slowly discovering a new version of passion. One I had hoped for in hearing about the other side of self work and recovery. A quiet yet deep joie. Where a small flame continues to brew but not so much to burn a house down. One where tiny sparks flare in my chest but do not overwhelm my whole body’s nervous system. And one where you know you will care for it with love and not resentfully hate it when you burn out.
I started realising that real passion fills me up and I can feel myself expand, not just buzz temporarily with excitement. The more I dive in, the more I grow, not just possess. Knowing how it feels now, I know it won’t run out, because it’s not just fun, it’s life giving. I never thought I would get here, but here I am, calmer and gratefully loving this other side. (Yay.)
Love, Maia
