I was looking at a set of watercolors I bought three years ago the other day. They were sitting on the top shelf of my closet, tucked behind some old tax returns and a box of cables I’ll probably never use again. The plastic wrap was still on them. Pristine. Untouched. A little dusty.
It’s funny how we do that. We buy these little pieces of a “better” version of ourselves—the version that paints, or plays the guitar, or grows heirloom tomatoes—and then we just… don’t. We get busy. We get tired. Or, more accurately, we get stuck in this weird headspace where if we can’t do something perfectly, or at least with some level of productivity, it feels like a waste of time.
I stood there holding that tin of paints for a while, feeling this strange mix of guilt and nostalgia. It’s not that I don’t have the time. I mean, I have the same twenty-four hours everyone else has. But somewhere along the line, I think I lost the permission to be a beginner. I think a lot of us have.
Why does everything have to be a ‘side hustle’ now?
I blame the internet, at least a little bit. Not in a “get off my lawn” kind of way, but in the way it’s changed how we view our free time. Every time you scroll through a feed, you see someone who took their hobby and turned it into a six-figure business. Your friend who likes to bake? Now she has a boutique cookie shop. The guy who tinkers with wood in his garage? He’s got a YouTube channel with half a million subscribers.
It creates this subtle, nagging pressure. If you’re going to spend time on something, shouldn’t it *count* for something? Shouldn’t you be “building a brand” or “monetizing your passion”? It’s exhausting. We’ve turned our relaxation into another form of labor. We’ve professionalized our joy.
I remember talking to a friend about this. He’s a great writer, but he hasn’t touched a creative project in months. He told me he felt like if he wasn’t writing something that could be published, there was no point. The act of just putting words on a page for the sake of the feeling—that cathartic, messy, private release—had been replaced by the need for an audience.
We’ve lost the “useless” hobby. The thing you do just because you like the way it feels, or the way it smells, or the way it makes the clock on the wall disappear for an hour. There’s no ROI on a poorly knitted scarf that you’re never going to wear, but the act of making it? That’s where the actual value is. We just forget to look there.
The paralyzing fear of being a beginner again
Being bad at things is uncomfortable. As adults, we’re expected to be competent. We’re expected to have “figured it out.” When you’re a kid, you’re allowed to be terrible at soccer or draw houses that look like lopsided triangles because you’re “learning.” But somewhere in our twenties, that grace period ends.
I tried to pick up the guitar a few years back. My fingers hurt, the chords sounded like a dying cat, and I felt ridiculous. I felt like a grown man playing a toy. Instead of leaning into that awkwardness, I put the guitar in its case and slid it under the bed. I told myself I was too busy, but really, I was just embarrassed. I was embarrassed that I wasn’t naturally gifted at something I’d never practiced.
It’s a weird kind of ego, isn’t it? To think that we should be able to master a craft without the messy middle part. We want the result, but we’re terrified of the process. We’re terrified of the “ugly” phase where the sourdough is flat and the painting looks like a mud puddle.
But here’s the thing I’m starting to realize: the ugly phase is the only part that actually matters. That’s where your brain actually stretches. If you’re only doing things you’re already good at, you’re just repeating yourself. You’re not growing; you’re just performing. And performance is work. Hobbies shouldn’t be work.
Reclaiming the ‘Useless’ Hour
So, how do we get it back? I don’t think it’s about “time management” or some fancy calendar hack. It’s a shift in how we value our minutes. We have to start protecting our time from the “productivity” voice in our heads.
I’ve started trying something lately. I call it the “Useless Hour.” It’s a block of time where I’m allowed to do something that has absolutely no chance of making me money, improving my career, or being posted on social media. Sometimes I just sit on the porch and try to identify birds with a book. Sometimes I draw shaky, terrible sketches of my coffee mug.
- It has to be tactile. Something I can touch or feel.
- It has to have no “end goal.” I’m not trying to finish a project; I’m just doing the thing.
- It has to be private. No photos, no updates. Just for me.
At first, it was hard. I felt twitchy. I felt like I should be checking my email or folding the laundry. But after about twenty minutes, something shifts. The “hustle” brain finally shuts up, and I just… am. It’s like clearing the cache on a cluttered computer. You don’t realize how much junk you were carrying until it’s gone.
It’s not about being lazy. It’s about being human. We aren’t machines meant to produce output 24/7. We’re biological entities that need play. And play isn’t play if you’re keeping score.
It’s okay if your sourdough doesn’t rise
I think we need to lower our standards for ourselves. Seriously. We’re so hard on our own efforts. We compare our “day one” to someone else’s “year ten” and then wonder why we feel discouraged. It’s a trap.
I remember during the big bread-baking craze a while back, everyone was posting these perfect, airy loaves of sourdough. I tried it, too. My kitchen was covered in flour, I spent three days obsessing over a starter, and the final result was basically a very expensive, very heavy brick. I wanted to cry. I felt like I’d failed a test.
But then I ate a slice of it with some butter, and you know what? It tasted okay. It wasn’t “Instagram-worthy,” but it was warm, and I had made it. The failure wasn’t in the bread; the failure was in my expectation that I should be a master baker on my first try. If I’d just enjoyed the smell of the yeast and the feeling of the dough, the whole experience would have been a win.
We need to stop looking at our hobbies as “projects to be completed” and start looking at them as “experiences to be had.” If you go for a run and you’re slow, you still went for a run. If you write a poem and it’s cheesy, you still wrote a poem. The world doesn’t need more masterpieces; it needs more people who are actually enjoying their lives.
Finding your thing again
If you’re sitting there thinking, “I don’t even know what I like anymore,” you’re not alone. We’ve been so conditioned to be productive that our “hobby muscles” have atrophied. You might have to dig deep back into your childhood to remember what used to make you lose track of time.
Was it LEGOs? Was it digging in the dirt? Was it making friendship bracelets? There’s a clue there. Those things haven’t changed; we have. We’ve just grown layers of “shoulds” over our “wants.”
Don’t go out and spend five hundred dollars on equipment. Don’t sign up for a twelve-week masterclass. Just start small. Buy the cheap watercolors. Borrow a book from the library. Spend ten minutes doing something “pointless” today. I promise the world won’t end if you aren’t being productive for a little while.
The quiet victory of just showing up for yourself
There’s a certain kind of peace that comes with doing something purely for yourself. It’s a quiet victory. It’s a way of saying, “My time is valuable even if it’s not being sold.” In a world that’s constantly trying to grab your attention and sell it to the highest bidder, having a private hobby is an act of rebellion.
I eventually opened that tin of watercolors. I didn’t paint anything beautiful. I painted some weird blue circles and some green streaks that were supposed to be trees but looked more like wilted celery. My hands got stained, and I made a mess of the kitchen table.
But for those forty-five minutes, I wasn’t a worker, or a bill-payer, or a person with a to-do list. I was just someone with a brush and some paper. And honestly? It was the best part of my week. Not because the art was good—it was terrible—but because I was finally, for a moment, just being.
Maybe it’s time to go find your “guitar under the bed.” Or your dusty paints. Or that garden plot that’s currently just weeds. Not because you’re going to be the best at it. Not because you’re going to start a business. But just because you deserve to do something for the simple, frustrating, wonderful joy of it. We all do.
It doesn’t have to be a big deal. It doesn’t have to be your “passion.” It just has to be yours. And that, in itself, is more than enough.