I was sitting at my kitchen table the other morning, staring at a stack of books I’d bought over the last six months. They were supposed to be my gateway into a new hobby—woodcarving, if you must know. I had the tools, the sandpaper, the little blocks of basswood that smelled like a workshop. And yet, there they were, gathering a fine layer of dust. I think we all have a corner of the house like that. The “project graveyard,” as I’ve come to call it. It’s that place where our best intentions go to take a nap, and usually, they don’t wake up.
Starting something new is intoxicating. There’s this rush of dopamine that hits when you first decide you’re going to be a “person who does X.” You can see the finished product in your mind. You can see yourself effortlessly gliding through the process. But then, life happens. Or rather, the reality of the work happens. It’s a strange, frustrating cycle, and I’ve been thinking a lot lately about why we do this to ourselves—and how we might actually get past that initial wall.
The Allure of the Blank Slate
There is nothing quite like the first day of a new project. Everything is perfect because nothing has actually happened yet. You haven’t made any mistakes. You haven’t ruined a piece of expensive wood or written a paragraph so clunky it makes your teeth ache. It’s all potential. I think that’s why we love buying the gear. We buy the running shoes, the expensive pens, the software subscriptions, and for a fleeting moment, we feel like we’ve already achieved something just by spending the money. It’s a trick our brains play on us.
We fall in love with the identity of the thing rather than the thing itself. I didn’t necessarily want to spend four hours sweating over a piece of wood that ended up looking like a misshapen potato; I wanted to be a woodcarver. There’s a massive difference between the two. One is a daydream, and the other is a messy, sometimes boring reality. When that gap becomes apparent, that’s usually when we start looking for the exit sign.
The “Messy Middle” and the Wall
Every project has a honeymoon phase. It lasts maybe a week, or if you’re lucky, a month. But eventually, you hit the wall. This is the point where the initial excitement has evaporated, and you’re left with the actual labor. This is the “messy middle.” It’s the part where the progress isn’t visible anymore. You’re learning, sure, but you’re mostly just failing. And failing isn’t very fun.
I’ve found that this is where most of us drop off. We tell ourselves we’re “too busy” or that “maybe this isn’t for me.” And sometimes, that’s true. Not everything is meant to be a lifelong passion. But more often than not, we’re just uncomfortable. We aren’t used to being bad at things. As adults, we’ve spent years getting good at our jobs or our daily routines, so when we step into something new and realize we’re back at square one, it bruises the ego. It’s easier to quit and keep the dream alive than to keep going and prove to ourselves that we’re currently mediocre.
The Perfectionism Trap
Perfectionism is just procrastination in a fancy suit. I’ve spent more time “researching” how to do things than actually doing them. It feels like work, but it isn’t. It’s a way to avoid the vulnerability of making something imperfect. We want our first attempt to look like someone else’s thousandth attempt. It’s a completely unfair comparison, yet we do it every single time. We look at people who have been doing this for decades and wonder why our work looks so amateurish. Well, it’s because we are amateurs. And that should be okay.
I remember trying to learn to play the harmonica a few years ago. I watched endless videos of these blues legends making the thing sing. Then I tried, and I sounded like a dying tea kettle. I was so embarrassed by the sound that I’d only practice when I was sure the neighbors were out. Eventually, the shame of being bad at it outweighed the joy of learning, and I put the harmonica in a drawer. I let perfectionism steal the fun right out of my hands.
Lowering the Stakes
So, how do we actually stick with it? I think the secret—if there is one—is to lower the stakes significantly. We put so much pressure on ourselves to make every hobby a “side hustle” or a “personal brand.” It’s exhausting. What if we just did things because they were interesting? What if the goal wasn’t to be the best, but just to see what happens?
- Aim for 15 minutes: Don’t try to spend four hours on your project. Just do fifteen minutes. It’s hard to argue with fifteen minutes.
- Embrace the “Bad” Version: Give yourself permission to make something truly terrible. In fact, make it a goal. “Today, I’m going to write the worst page of prose ever written.” It takes the pressure off.
- Stop Talking About It: Sometimes, telling everyone about your new project gives you the same satisfaction as actually doing it, which saps your motivation. Keep it a secret for a while.
- Focus on the Feeling: Instead of focusing on the result, focus on how it feels to do the work. The smell of the paint, the click of the keys, the rhythm of your breathing while you run.
There’s something deeply satisfying about doing something just for the sake of doing it. No audience, no metrics, no expectations. Just you and the thing. We don’t have enough of that in our lives anymore. Everything is so curated and shared that we’ve forgotten how to just be in the process.
The Importance of Rhythm Over Routine
People talk a lot about “routine,” but I prefer the word “rhythm.” A routine feels like a chore—something you have to check off a list. A rhythm is more like a tide. It has ebbs and flows. Some weeks you might be deeply invested in your project, and other weeks, life gets in the way. That’s fine. The trick is not to let a break become a permanent stop.
If you miss a day, or a week, or a month, the temptation is to say, “Well, I guess I’m not doing that anymore.” But you can just start again. The project is still there. The wood is still in the box. The notebook is still waiting. You don’t have to wait for a Monday or a New Year to pick it back up. You can just pick it up on a random Tuesday afternoon when you have a spare moment.
I’ve realized that the most successful people I know aren’t necessarily the most talented; they’re just the ones who are the best at starting over. They don’t let a lapse in discipline define them. They just shrug and get back to work. There’s a real quiet strength in that kind of persistence. It’s not flashy, and it doesn’t make for a great montage, but it’s how things actually get finished.
Finishing Is a Skill, Too
We often think of creativity as this mystical spark, but a huge part of it is just the stamina to finish. Finishing is a muscle you have to train. If you’re used to quitting when things get hard, you’re never going to experience the deep, soulful satisfaction of seeing something through to the end. And the thing is, the end doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to be done.
There’s a specific kind of magic that happens when you reach the finish line of a project you almost gave up on. It changes your relationship with yourself. You start to trust yourself more. You become someone who keeps their promises to themselves. That, to me, is worth far more than whatever you actually created. The “thing” you made is just a byproduct; the real work was the discipline and the resilience you built along the way.
I eventually went back to those woodblocks. I didn’t make anything beautiful. I made a very small, very crooked bird that looks more like a thumb with a beak. But I finished it. I sanded it down until it was smooth, and I put it on my shelf. Every time I look at it, I don’t see a masterpiece. I see a moment where I chose to stay in the chair instead of walking away. And honestly? That feels better than any “perfect” project ever could.
A Few Parting Thoughts
If you’re sitting there right now with a half-finished something-or-other, don’t beat yourself up. We’re all human, and we’re all tired. But maybe, just for today, try to spend ten minutes on it. Don’t worry about whether it’s good. Don’t worry about whether you’ll ever finish it. Just engage with it for a moment. You might find that the spark is still there, buried under all that dust and expectation.
We don’t need more “perfect” things in the world. We need more people who are willing to be messy, to be beginners, and to just keep showing up. So, go find your version of my crooked wooden bird. It’s waiting for you.