I was sitting in my kitchen last Tuesday, staring at a half-finished watercolor painting that—honestly—looked more like a bruised potato than a sunset. And for a split second, I felt this weird, nagging pang of guilt. It wasn’t because the painting was bad; I’ve made peace with being a mediocre artist. It was because I wasn’t doing anything with it. I wasn’t filming a “process” video. I wasn’t thinking about opening an Etsy shop. I wasn’t even planning to post it on social media to show everyone how “creative” my afternoon was. I was just sitting there with wet paper and blue-stained fingers, wasting time.
Or at least, that’s what the voice in my head said. The one that’s been conditioned by years of hustle culture and the constant buzz of the internet. It told me that if I’m not producing something of value, I’m failing. But then I realized something: that voice is exhausting. And I think a lot of us are carrying it around these days.
We’ve reached this strange point in our lives where every hobby has to be a “side hustle.” If you’re good at baking, you should sell your sourdough. If you like gardening, you should start a blog about it. If you’re a decent photographer, you’re “leaving money on the table” by not doing weekend shoots. It’s like we’ve forgotten how to just… exist. How to do things simply because they make our hearts feel a little less heavy.
The invisible weight of being productive
I remember when a “hobby” was just something you did to kill time between work and sleep. You might collect stamps, or build model airplanes, or knit a scarf that was slightly too long and very lopsided. There was no pressure to be the best. There was certainly no pressure to turn it into a brand. But somewhere along the line, the boundary between our professional lives and our private lives just… evaporated.
Maybe it’s the way we’re always connected now. We see people online turning their passions into full-time careers, and while that’s inspiring for some, for the rest of us, it’s created this underlying anxiety. We feel like we’re falling behind if we aren’t optimizing every waking hour. I’ve caught myself thinking about “return on investment” for a Sunday afternoon walk. That’s a bit bleak, isn’t it? When a walk in the woods has to be “leveraged” for health metrics or mental clarity goals rather than just being a walk.
The problem is that when you turn a hobby into a job—or even a “productive” pursuit—you lose the very thing that made it a hobby in the first place. You lose the freedom to be terrible at it. You lose the right to walk away from it for three months because you just don’t feel like it. Once there’s a deadline, or a customer, or an audience, it’s not play anymore. It’s work.
The death of the “messy” beginner
I think we’ve become afraid of being beginners. Social media has a way of showing us the finished product without the hundreds of hours of frustration that came before it. You see a perfectly glazed ceramic bowl on your feed, and you think, “I want to do that.” So you take a class, and your bowl looks like a slumped pile of mud. And instead of laughing at it, you feel discouraged. Why? Because we’ve lost the “messy” phase.
Being a beginner is supposed to be awkward. It’s supposed to be full of mistakes. That’s where the growth happens, sure, but it’s also where the fun is. There’s something incredibly liberating about doing something you know you aren’t great at. There are no expectations. No one is waiting for you to succeed. You’re just playing with the materials, seeing what happens.
Why mediocrity is actually a gift
I’ve started embracing the idea of being a “proud amateur.” I’ve taken up birdwatching lately. I’m not very good at it. I can’t identify half the birds I see, and I usually forget my binoculars. But I love it. I love it because it’s mine. It doesn’t serve anyone else. It doesn’t pay the bills. It doesn’t make me look “cool” (unless you think khaki vests are the height of fashion, which… maybe they are?).
When you allow yourself to be mediocre, you take the power back. You’re saying that your time is valuable enough to be spent on something that gives you nothing but a moment of peace. That’s a radical act in a world that wants to monetize your every thought.
The trap of “meaningful” leisure
Have you ever noticed how even our relaxation has become a chore? We don’t just watch a movie; we “catch up” on the latest must-see series so we can participate in the cultural conversation. We don’t just read a book; we track our progress on a reading app to hit a yearly goal. Even our self-care has become a checklist. Meditate for ten minutes. Drink two liters of water. Journal for three pages. Check, check, check.
I’m guilty of this too. I used to feel like if I didn’t “learn” something from a book, it was a waste of time. I’d pick up non-fiction books about productivity or psychology when what I really wanted was a trashy mystery novel. I was trying to optimize my downtime. But here’s the thing: your brain isn’t a machine. It doesn’t need to be constantly upgraded. Sometimes it just needs to sit in the grass and look at bugs.
True leisure isn’t about being better; it’s about being here. It’s that flow state where time sort of stretches out and you forget to check your phone. You can’t force that state if you’re constantly looking at the clock or thinking about how you’re going to describe the experience later.
How to reclaim your joy (and keep it)
So, how do we stop this? How do we protect the things we love from the “hustle” parasite? I don’t have all the answers—I’m still figuring it out myself—but I’ve started setting some internal boundaries that seem to help. It’s not a system, just a few shifts in how I look at my day.
- Keep some things secret. You don’t have to share everything. In fact, there’s a special kind of magic in having a project that only you know about. It keeps the “audience” out of your head while you’re creating.
- Choose to be bad at things. Pick up something you have no natural talent for. If you’re a math person, try poetry. If you’re a runner, try a slow yoga class. It forces you to let go of the need for mastery.
- Quit when it stops being fun. If a hobby starts feeling like a chore, stop. Put the supplies in a closet. Maybe you’ll come back to it in a year, maybe you won’t. Either way, you don’t owe that hobby anything.
- Protect your “white space.” Leave gaps in your schedule where nothing is planned. No chores, no errands, no “fun” activities. Just space. See what your brain does when it’s bored.
It’s about realizing that your worth isn’t tied to your output. You are not a factory. You are a human being who deserves to experience the world without always having to justify your presence in it. It’s okay to just do things because they’re there. Because they’re pretty. Because they’re weird.
The quiet power of “doing nothing”
I think we’re all just a little bit tired. Tired of the noise, tired of the pressure, tired of feeling like we’re never doing enough. And maybe the antidote isn’t a new productivity hack or a better calendar. Maybe the antidote is just… allowing ourselves to be idle. To let a hobby stay a hobby. To let a Saturday afternoon be nothing more than a Saturday afternoon.
Last night, I went for a walk. I didn’t track my steps. I didn’t listen to a podcast. I just walked around the block and looked at the way the light was hitting the neighbors’ hydrangeas. It was deeply “unproductive.” I didn’t gain any new skills. I didn’t network. I didn’t burn a significant number of calories. But when I got home, I felt—for the first time in a long time—actually rested.
We’ve been sold this idea that the “good life” is one where every moment is filled with purpose and progress. But I’m starting to think the good life is actually found in the gaps. In the messy watercolor potatoes and the unread books and the long, aimless walks. It’s found in the things we do for no reason at all.
So, if you’ve been feeling that pressure lately—that need to turn your joy into a job—here’s your permission to stop. You don’t have to be a brand. You don’t have to be a success. You can just be you, doing something you love, badly, in the quiet of your own home. And honestly? That might be the most productive thing you do all week.