I was standing in the middle of a craft store last Tuesday, staring at a wall of acrylic yarn, and I realized I had no idea why I was there. I don’t knit. I don’t crochet. I don’t even particularly like the texture of wool. But there I was, clutching a 20% off coupon like it was a lifeline, convinced that if I just picked up the right hobby, my life would suddenly feel “complete” or “balanced.” It’s a weird pressure we put on ourselves, isn’t it?
We live in this culture that demands everything we do has to be productive. If you’re good at baking, you should start a side business. If you like gardening, you should be growing all your own organic produce to save on the grocery bill. If you’re a decent writer, well, you should be starting a blog—wait, I see the irony here. But you get what I mean. The moment we find something we enjoy, the “optimization” voice kicks in, and suddenly, the thing that was supposed to be fun becomes another item on the to-do list. And that, I think, is exactly where we’re going wrong.
The “Side Hustle” Trap and the Death of Fun
I remember a few years ago, I decided I was going to get into watercolor painting. I bought the nice paper, the professional-grade tubes of paint, and those tiny brushes that cost way more than a piece of wood and squirrel hair should. For the first three days, it was great. I was just moving colors around, seeing how the blue bled into the yellow to make a messy, beautiful green. It was relaxing. It was quiet.
Then, I made the mistake of showing a friend one of my “masterpieces”—which was basically just a blob that vaguely resembled a sunset. They said, “Oh, you should totally sell these on that one handmade marketplace! People love this minimalist stuff.”
And just like that, the magic died. Suddenly, I wasn’t painting for the feeling of the brush on the paper. I was painting to see if I could make something “marketable.” I started looking at other people’s work and feeling inadequate because my blobs weren’t as “minimalist-chic” as theirs. I started thinking about shipping costs and packaging. I haven’t touched my watercolors in six months. It’s funny, in a sad sort of way, how quickly we can turn a joy into a job.
We’ve been conditioned to believe that time spent not making money or “improving” ourselves is time wasted. But that’s a lie. A big, exhausting lie. We need space to be mediocre. We need space to do things just because they feel good in the moment, without any regard for the end result. If the result is a lumpy sweater or a burnt loaf of bread, so be it. The value wasn’t in the sweater; it was in the hour you spent not checking your email.
The Allure (and Danger) of the “Starter Kit”
There’s a specific kind of dopamine hit that comes from starting a new hobby. It’s not actually the hobby itself—it’s the shopping. I call it the “Starter Kit Syndrome.” You decide you want to try woodworking, so you spend four hours on YouTube watching “essential tools for beginners” videos. Then you spend $300 at the hardware store. You feel like a woodworker because you own a saw, but you haven’t actually cut a single piece of wood yet.
I’ve done this more times than I care to admit. I have a yoga mat gathering dust in the closet, a set of calligraphy pens that have probably dried up by now, and enough sourdough starter equipment to feed a small village. Buying the stuff is easy. It makes us feel like we’re making progress without having to do the hard part: actually being a beginner.
Why Being a Beginner is Uncomfortable
Being a beginner sucks. Let’s be honest. You’re clumsy, you don’t know the terminology, and everything you produce looks like a third-grade art project. In a world where we only see the “final product” on social media—the perfectly staged photo of the sourdough, the flawless sunset painting—being bad at something feels like a personal failure. But it’s not. It’s the most honest state a human can be in.
When you’re a beginner, your brain is actually working. You’re making new connections, you’re learning how to fail and keep going. If you’re only doing things you’re already good at, you’re just repeating yourself. There’s a certain humility in being bad at a hobby that I think we really need more of. It keeps us grounded.
How to Find Something You Actually Like (Not Just the Idea of It)
So, how do you actually find a hobby that sticks? I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about this while staring at my abandoned calligraphy pens. I think the trick is to stop looking for a “hobby” and start looking for a “feeling.”
Do you want to feel quiet? Maybe try birdwatching or long-distance walking. Do you want to feel powerful? Maybe look into weightlifting or even something like axe throwing. Do you want to feel like you’re using your hands? Pottery, gardening, or even just building overly complicated Lego sets can do that. Don’t pick a hobby because it looks cool on a grid. Pick it because the actual, physical act of doing it makes your brain feel a little less noisy.
- Start small. Don’t buy the $500 setup. Buy the cheapest version possible, or better yet, borrow it. If you’re still doing the thing in a month, then you can upgrade.
- Give yourself permission to quit. This is huge. If you realize three weeks into learning French that you actually hate grammar drills, just stop. You haven’t failed; you’ve just gathered data. You now know that grammar drills aren’t for you. Move on.
- Keep it secret. This sounds weird, but try not to tell everyone about your new hobby. The moment you tell people, they start asking for updates, and then you feel that “performance” pressure again. Keep it for yourself for a while.
The Reality of “Flow State”
You’ve probably heard people talk about “flow”—that state where time disappears and you’re completely immersed in what you’re doing. It sounds magical, like some kind of meditative trance. And it is, when it happens. But the part they don’t tell you is that you have to slog through about twenty hours of frustration to get to those five minutes of flow.
I find this most when I’m gardening. Most of the time, I’m just sweaty, my back hurts, and I’m annoyed that the squirrels have eaten my tomatoes again. It’s not “zen.” It’s mostly just manual labor in the dirt. But every once in a while, I’ll be pruning a rose bush or pulling weeds, and I’ll realize that forty-five minutes have passed and I haven’t thought about my mortgage or that awkward thing I said in a meeting in 2014 once. That’s the win. That’s why we do it.
It’s not about the tomatoes. (Which is good, because as I mentioned, the squirrels got them). It’s about the fact that for forty-five minutes, I was just a person in a garden, not a “content creator” or a “professional” or a “consumer.”
Redefining Success in Your Spare Time
We need to change how we measure the success of our hobbies. Usually, we measure it by the output. “I ran 5 miles,” or “I finished a scarf.” What if we measured it by how we felt while doing it? Or better yet, what if we didn’t measure it at all?
I have a friend who “plays” the guitar. He’s been playing for ten years and he’s still not very good. He knows about four chords, and he can’t really sing in key. If you judged him by his “output,” you’d say he’s failed at learning the guitar. But if you see him on a Friday night, sitting on his porch, strumming those same four chords with a look of total peace on his face, you realize he’s actually the most successful guitar player in the world. He’s getting exactly what he needs from it.
He isn’t trying to get a gig. He isn’t trying to record an album. He’s just… playing. We’ve forgotten that “play” is a valid way for adults to spend their time. We think play is for kids, and for adults, every action must have a purpose. But maybe the purpose of play is just the play itself.
Some Thoughts for the Road
If you’re currently in that restless phase where you feel like you need “something to do,” my advice is to look backward. What did you like doing when you were ten? Before you cared about being “good” at things? Before you had a LinkedIn profile? I liked making maps of imaginary islands. So, recently, I bought some nice pens and started drawing weird, nonsensical maps. They serve no purpose. I will never show them to anyone. They are completely useless. And honestly? It’s the best part of my week.
Don’t let the pressure to be productive steal the few hours of the day that actually belong to you. Be bad at something. Be messy. Spend money on a starter kit and then let it gather dust if it turns out you don’t actually like the thing. It’s okay. The point of a hobby isn’t to add another layer to your identity; it’s to give you a break from having to have an identity at all.
So, go ahead. Buy the yarn. Or don’t. Just make sure that whatever you choose to do, you’re doing it for you, and not for the version of you that lives on the internet. We have enough jobs. Let’s keep our hobbies for ourselves.