I’m sitting here at my desk, looking at a half-finished watercolor painting that has been staring back at me for three weeks. To be honest, it’s not very good. The colors are muddy, the perspective is slightly tilted, and the tree in the foreground looks more like a green cotton ball on a toothpick than an actual oak. A few years ago, I would have tossed it in the bin out of sheer embarrassment. I would’ve told myself that if I wasn’t going to get good at this—like, “sell prints on the internet” good—then what was the point of even trying?
But lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about why we feel that way. Somewhere along the line, we decided that every minute of our lives had to be “productive.” We turned our downtime into “self-improvement” and our interests into “side hustles.” It’s exhausting, isn’t it? I’ve realized that there is something deeply rebellious, and honestly quite healing, about doing something just because you enjoy it, even if you’re absolutely terrible at it.
The Optimization Trap
We live in a world that is obsessed with optimization. You see it everywhere. If you like to cook, people ask when you’re starting a food blog. If you’re a runner, you’re pressured to sign up for a marathon. If you’re just sitting on your porch, you feel this nagging itch in the back of your brain telling you that you should be listening to a “high-growth” podcast or catching up on emails.
It’s like we’ve lost the permission to just… be. We’ve turned ourselves into little machines, constantly checking our output. I caught myself doing this the other day. I was gardening, which is supposed to be my “relaxing” time, and I found myself getting frustrated that my tomato plants weren’t growing fast enough. I was literally trying to optimize nature. I had to stop, sit down in the dirt, and remind myself that the tomatoes don’t owe me anything. The act of putting my hands in the soil was the goal, not the harvest.
This “optimization trap” robs us of the joy of discovery. When you’re focused on the end result, you miss the weird, messy, and often funny process of getting there. You stop experimenting because you’re afraid of wasting time. But time spent doing something that makes you feel human isn’t wasted. It’s the most important time you have.
Why We Need the “Useless” Hobby
I think we’ve forgotten what a hobby actually is. A hobby isn’t a second job. It’s not something you do to “network” or “build your brand.” A hobby is a gift you give to yourself. It’s a space where the stakes are zero. No one is grading you. No one is paying you. No one is going to fire you if you mess up.
The Freedom of Being a Beginner
There is a specific kind of magic in being a total beginner at something when you’re an adult. Most of the time, we’re expected to be experts. At work, you’re the person who knows the answers. At home, you’re the one who keeps things running. It’s a lot of pressure to be “on” all the time.
When you pick up something new—say, learning to play the ukulele or trying your hand at pottery—you’re allowed to be clueless. You’re allowed to make mistakes. In fact, you’re expected to. There’s a wonderful humility in that. It knocks the ego down a few pegs and reminds you that you’re still capable of growth. It’s okay to be lumpy. It’s okay to be out of tune. It’s okay to have no idea what you’re doing.
- It lowers your cortisol levels because there’s no performance anxiety.
- It builds new neural pathways (at least, that’s what I’ve heard, and it feels true).
- It gives you something to talk about that isn’t work or the weather.
- It reminds you that your value isn’t tied to your productivity.
The Sourdough Lesson
Remember when everyone was making sourdough bread a few years back? I jumped on that bandwagon, too. My first few loaves were essentially edible bricks. They were dense, flat, and could probably have been used as doorstops. My instinct was to get frustrated and watch twenty hours of tutorials to “fix” my technique. I wanted to master it immediately.
But then I realized: why am I rushing? If the bread is bad, I’ll just make toast out of it. The real fun was the rhythm of the folding, the smell of the flour, and the quiet kitchen on a Saturday morning. Once I stopped trying to make the “perfect” loaf for a photo, I actually started enjoying the process. And guess what? The bread got better anyway, but that was just a side effect, not the point.
We’ve become so afraid of being “bad” at things that we’ve stopped trying anything we can’t immediately succeed at. That’s a really small way to live. I’d rather have a house full of ugly pottery and half-knitted scarves than a life where I never tried anything outside my comfort zone.
How to Reclaim Your Time
If you’re feeling that familiar burn of being overworked and under-inspired, you don’t need a “productivity hack.” You probably just need to go do something useless. But how do you actually do that when your brain is screaming at you to be “efficient”?
First, you have to lower the bar. Like, really low. Don’t go out and buy five hundred dollars’ worth of equipment for a new interest. Just grab a pen and a scrap of paper and doodle. Or go for a walk without your phone. Or try to cook a meal you’ve never heard of. The goal isn’t to find a “passion”—it’s just to follow a tiny spark of curiosity without worrying about where it leads.
Second, stop sharing everything. We have this weird impulse now to document every hobby. We take a photo of the sourdough, the garden, the painting, and we wait for the “likes” to validate our effort. Try keeping your hobby a secret for a while. Don’t post it. Don’t tell your friends unless you really want to. Keep it just for you. It changes the energy of the activity entirely when you know no one is ever going to see the result.
Finding Your “Thing” (Again)
Think back to what you liked doing when you were ten years old. Before you cared about resumes or bills. Did you like building forts? Maybe you should try woodworking or just rearranging your furniture. Did you like collecting rocks? Maybe you’d enjoy geology or just taking long, slow walks on the beach. Those childhood interests are usually the truest indicators of what actually feeds our souls.
For me, it was always stories. I used to write these long, sprawling adventures in notebooks that I’d hide under my bed. I didn’t write them because I wanted to be a “writer.” I wrote them because I wanted to know what happened next. I’m trying to get back to that feeling—the feeling of doing something just to see what happens.
The Mental Health Factor
I’m not a doctor, but I know how I feel when I’m only focused on “getting things done.” I feel brittle. I feel like if one thing goes wrong, the whole system will collapse. Having a hobby—especially one you’re bad at—acts like a pressure valve. It gives your brain a place to play. And playing is essential.
When you’re focused on a task that isn’t for work or survival, your mind gets to drift into this state of “flow.” It’s that feeling where time disappears and you’re just… there. It’s the opposite of the “fragmented” feeling we get when we’re constantly switching between tabs and notifications. It’s a way of reclaiming your own attention. And in this day and age, our attention is the most valuable thing we own.
I’ve noticed that when I spend an hour struggling with my terrible watercolor painting, I’m actually more patient with my family afterward. I’m less stressed about my inbox. I’ve given myself a little win—not a “win” in terms of success, but a win in terms of autonomy. I chose how to spend my time, and I chose to spend it on something that didn’t “matter.”
So, Go Be Bad at Something
My challenge to you—and to myself, really—is to find something you’re genuinely terrible at and do it anyway. Sing off-key in the shower. Attempt to knit a blanket that will inevitably be lopsided. Plant a garden that might not survive the summer. Whatever it is, do it with gusto. Embrace the mess.
We spend so much of our lives trying to be “enough.” Good enough, smart enough, successful enough. But in the world of hobbies, you are already enough just by showing up. The muddy watercolor painting on my desk isn’t a failure; it’s a record of an hour I spent being curious and alive. And that’s plenty.
Anyway, I think the paint is dry now. I might add some more purple to that cotton-ball tree. It won’t make it look more like an oak, but I think I’d like to see what happens if I do. And really, that’s all that matters.