When I lived in Japan, I could not find an amateur cycling group. I lived in Tochigi, where there are lots of cyclists and where Japan holds its national road races every year. The region’s rolling hills and scenic routes make it ideal for cycling enthusiasts of all levels. It has winding roads that cut through rice paddies and climb into forested mountains.
On weekends, you could see the professional team members in their matching uniforms, riding in perfect formation. But our town only had a professional cycling team, the Blitzen. There was no group of fat middle-aged weekend warriors like I had in Toronto with the Lapdogs. In Canada, weekend mornings would bring out dozens of casual riders. Some serious but many just enjoying the camaraderie and exercise, laughing and chatting as they pedaled along urban paths or country roads. Frequently stopping for coffee or snacks without concern for optimal performance metrics.
This is because the Japanese tend to do things all-or-nothing. They call it “majime“. It is being serious and earnest in a pursuit and dedicating oneself intensely to it. This cultural value has produced extraordinary levels of craftsmanship and artistry across countless disciplines. From traditional arts like ikebana (flower arrangement) and shodo (calligraphy) to modern pursuits like animation and automotive engineering. The majime approach involves not just technical mastery but philosophical depth—understanding the historical lineage, underlying principles, and spiritual dimensions of an activity. Practitioners often train under recognized masters for years or decades, absorbing wisdom that extends far beyond mechanical skill.
This “majime” manifest in things like hikers with the complete matching mountaineering sets including hiking poles. Despite the fact they’re walking on a well-groomed trail with no need for poles. You can observe this phenomenon across Japanese leisure activities. Tennis players in professional-quality outfits practicing with coaches, amateur photographers with elaborate equipment carefully composing shots of local landmarks, hobby gardeners consulting detailed manuals while tending meticulously arranged plants. Each pursuit becomes not just an activity but an identity, accompanied by appropriate gear, systematic learning, and serious commitment.
However, it doesn’t really allow for people to try things for fun. If you want to do something, you do it with all your focus and attention. Including using the best equipment possible. This comprehensive approach carries significant benefits—Japanese hobbyists often achieve remarkable levels of skill and appreciation for their chosen activities. The depth of engagement leads to profound understanding and authentic mastery that casual participation rarely yields. There’s undeniable beauty in this thoroughness. This refusal to engage superficially or haphazardly with an activity deemed worthy of one’s time.
What it doesn’t do, is it doesn’t really allow for people to just try things. As a result, you don’t see “sign up for a pottery class” or “beginners knitting”. The barrier to entry becomes implicitly high—not necessarily in financial terms, though specialized equipment can be expensive, but psychologically. Without cultural permission to be temporally inconsistent or technically mediocre, many potentially enjoyable activities remain unexplored. The expectation of commitment before experimentation means fewer opportunities to discover unexpected passions or temporary but refreshing diversions. This stands in stark contrast to the “sample platter” approach common in Western leisure; trying many different activities with varying levels of engagement is not just accepted but encouraged.
Both cultural approaches have merit, of course. The Japanese majime tradition produces unparalleled depth of mastery and appreciation, while the more casual Western approach facilitates breadth of experience and accessibility. Perhaps the ideal lies somewhere between—allowing ourselves the freedom to explore widely while also honoring the activities we truly love with committed attention and the willingness to develop genuine skill over time.
It’s great if you love your hobby so much that you become an expert in it, but first you need to find out what you love. This process of discovery requires permission to experiment, to engage temporarily, to be a beginner without immediate commitment to mastery. Many of us carry childhood wounds around activities we were expected to excel in before we could determine if we even enjoyed them—whether sports, musical instruments, or academic subjects. Healing these wounds means reclaiming the right to participate in activities simply because they interest us, without tying our identity or self-worth to achievement in those domains.
Secondly, being an expert at the hobby is not the goal. When we frame hobbies primarily as skills to be mastered rather than experiences to be enjoyed, we import the achievement orientation that already dominates our professional lives into spaces meant for refreshment and rejuvenation. This misplaced focus transforms potential sources of joy into additional arenas for striving, evaluation, and potential disappointment. The primary purpose of a hobby is not to add another accomplishment to your resume or Instagram profile but to engage in an activity that enlivens your spirit and enriches your experience of being human. Mastering a new skill or achieving a goal in a hobby can provide a sense of accomplishment, which boosts self-esteem. Whether it’s completing a knitting project or running a marathon, hobbies help individuals feel capable and confident.
If you do achieve mastery that is great! There are benefits to that which I will discuss later, but don’t let it dissuade you from participating. Expertise, when it emerges organically from consistent engagement with an activity you love, brings its own rewards—the satisfaction of skilled execution, deeper appreciation of nuance, the ability to express yourself with greater precision, and sometimes the opportunity to share knowledge with others. But these benefits should be viewed as welcome side effects rather than primary motivations. They arrive not through striving for excellence but through sustained attention to something that already brings you joy. What would you try if you didn’t have to be good at it?