The beauty of hobbies lies precisely in their liberation from the metrics and evaluations that govern professional activities. They create spaces where we can be gloriously, unabashedly amateur—engaging out of love (“amare”, the root of amateur means “to love” in Latin). In these spaces, we rediscover the intrinsic pleasures of learning, creating, moving, and playing that often get overshadowed by instrumental concerns. We remember what it feels like to do something simply because it interests us, challenges us in ways we enjoy, or brings a smile to our face.
With this in mind, I encourage you to try that pottery class, even if your pots emerge lopsided and deformed. Sign up for beginner’s knitting despite your initially uneven stitches. Join that casual cycling group regardless of your speed or endurance. Allow yourself to be drawn to activities that spark curiosity or joy without immediately questioning their practical value or your potential for excellence. The willingness to be a beginner—vulnerable, imperfect, and open to discovery—may be the most radical act of self-care in a culture obsessed with expertise, optimization, and documented achievement.
In embracing the spirit of amateurism alongside the possibility of developing genuine skill, we create space for the full spectrum of engagement with our chosen activities. Some hobbies may remain casual interests we enjoy occasionally, while others might evolve into lifelong passions we pursue with increasing depth. Either outcome—and anything in between—represents a successful hobby if it adds dimension, pleasure, and balance to your life. The only true failure would be depriving yourself of these enriching experiences because of concerns about competence or comparisons with others.
Never be afraid to try something new. Remember, an amateur built the ark; professionals built the Titanic
This pervasive misconception—that competence must precede pleasure—has robbed countless people of potentially enriching experiences. It creates an artificial barrier to entry, suggesting that activities are only worthwhile once we’ve achieved some arbitrary level of proficiency. This mindset reflects our achievement-oriented culture, where value is frequently measured in outcomes rather than experiences, in expertise rather than engagement. Yet when we examine our most authentic moments of joy, they rarely correlate with external standards of excellence.
You can enjoy cycling without spending tens of thousands of dollars on a bike. The simple pleasure of feeling the wind against your face, experiencing the landscape in that unique rhythm that cycling provides, and extending your physical capabilities requires no carbon fiber frame or electronic shifting system. A basic, functional bicycle can transport you just as effectively into that meditative state where physical exertion meets environmental awareness—that distinctive cycling consciousness where the boundaries between self, machine, and environment momentarily dissolve. The essential joy lies not in the equipment’s sophistication but in the fundamental experience of self-propelled movement through space.
You can enjoy aquariums without it needing to be a 200-gallon salt water tank. A modest freshwater setup with a few thoughtfully chosen species can provide endless fascination as you observe intricate behaviors, subtle interactions, and the graceful choreography of creatures moving through water. The daily rituals of maintenance—testing parameters, adjusting conditions, providing nourishment—connect you to natural cycles and the responsibility of stewardship in ways just as meaningful as more elaborate systems. The contemplative pleasure of watching an aquatic microcosm unfold in your living room requires no rare specimens or complex technical arrangements—only attention and appreciation.
You can enjoy painting without showing in a gallery. The meditative process of mixing colors, the tactile sensation of brush against canvas, the cognitive and emotional flow of translating perception or imagination into visual form—these experiences exist independently of external validation or public display. Many of history’s most passionate artists created primarily for themselves, finding in the act of creation itself a fulfillment that transcended considerations of audience or acclaim. The therapeutic benefits of artistic expression—reducing stress, processing emotions, enhancing mindfulness—accrue regardless of technical skill or public recognition.
What is important is that you enjoy it. This simple yet profound criterion—personal enjoyment—stands in stark contrast to the metrics by which we’re conditioned to evaluate activities: profitability, prestige, or measurable achievement. When we reclaim enjoyment as a legitimate and sufficient reason for engaging in an activity, we liberate ourselves from the tyranny of external validation and reconnect with our intrinsic motivations. This shift in perspective transforms hobbies from potential sources of inadequacy or comparison into reliable pathways to authentic pleasure and self-connection.
Amateur Dancers: for the love of it
One of my co-workers many years ago, asked some colleagues and I to come to her dance performance. The invitation came casually during a lunch break, mentioned with equal parts enthusiasm and self-deprecation. “It’s nothing professional,” she assured us, “just a community thing we’ve been working on for a few months.” Despite her modest framing, there was an unmistakable spark in her eyes when she spoke about it—a genuine excitement that piqued our curiosity and prompted us to accept despite our busy schedules.
I have to say, it was absolutely magical. The performance took place in a small community center with basic lighting and minimal staging. The audience consisted mostly of friends, family members, and supportive community members, creating an atmosphere of warmth and encouragement rather than critical assessment. As the show began, it quickly became apparent that we were witnessing something far more meaningful than a display of technical prowess.
Amateurs are not afraid to make mistakes or look ridiculous in public. They’re in love, so they don’t hesitate to do work that others think of as silly or just plain stupid. ~Austin Kleon.
Some of the dancers were amazing, they’d obviously had training. Their movements displayed the precision and fluidity that comes from years of disciplined practice—extensions reaching exactly where intended, turns executed with controlled momentum, transitions flowing seamlessly between sequences. You could see in their bodies the embodied knowledge of technique and form, the physical vocabulary developed through consistent study and correction.
But some were awful. It’s like that joke from the old TV show Cheers when Diane says, “I always wanted to dance very badly.” And Norm replies, “You got your wish.” These participants missed counts, occasionally moved in the wrong direction, displayed limited flexibility, and sometimes appeared momentarily lost in the choreography. By conventional standards of dance performance, their execution would be considered fundamentally flawed, perhaps even inappropriate for public presentation.
What made it so special was the dancers exuded joy. Through every movement, regardless of technical quality, radiated an unmistakable delight that transcended concerns about perfection. The expressions on their faces—concentrating yet smiling, focused yet free—revealed people fully present in their bodies and the moment. Even when making mistakes, they continued with undiminished enthusiasm, sometimes exchanging quick glances of amusement or encouragement with fellow dancers. This wasn’t performance anxiety but its opposite: a collective celebration of embodied expression unconstrained by fear of judgment.
They knew they weren’t that good. There was no self-deception or delusion about their abilities—no pretense of professional-level accomplishment or artistic innovation. In conversations after the show, many openly acknowledged their limitations with refreshing honesty: “I’ve only been dancing for six months,” or “I still can’t get that middle section right,” or “I’m always a half-beat behind.” Yet these admissions carried no shame or apology, just the matter-of-fact recognition of their current capabilities and the implicit understanding that technical mastery wasn’t the point.
They didn’t care. This absence of concern represented not apathy but liberation—freedom from the restrictive belief that activities must be performed exceptionally to be worthwhile. Instead of measuring their experience against some abstract standard of excellence, they oriented themselves toward the intrinsic rewards of participation: physical exhilaration, creative expression, community connection, personal growth, and simple fun. Their indifference to conventional metrics of success allowed them access to deeper satisfactions that often elude even highly skilled performers who remain tethered to concerns about reception and evaluation.
It was the act of dancing that was important. The value lay in the doing itself—in temporarily inhabiting a mode of expression different from everyday life, in using their bodies as instruments of creativity, in participating in a communal artistic endeavor. Through dance, they accessed dimensions of experience often neglected in our increasingly cerebral and digitized existence: rhythmic awareness, spatial orientation, kinesthetic intelligence, non-verbal communication, and embodied emotion. The activity provided its own inherent rewards that required no external validation or practical justification.
So, dance like no one is watching. This familiar phrase captures the essence of authentic engagement with activities we love—the capacity to participate fully without self-consciousness about how we appear to others. It suggests immersion rather than performance, process rather than product, experience rather than evaluation. When we approach our hobbies with this mindset, we reclaim an almost childlike capacity for absorption and enjoyment that adult life too often diminishes through its emphasis on productivity and assessment.
The metaphor extends beyond dance to any activity: Paint like no one will see the canvas. Write like no one will read the words. Sing like no one will hear the melody. Cook like no one will taste the food. This orientation toward personal pleasure and engagement rather than external reception creates spaces in our lives where we can temporarily step outside the evaluative frameworks that dominate most domains of adult experience.
It doesn’t really matter what the hobbies are. The specific activities themselves hold less significance than the approach we bring to them. Some people find flow in traditionally creative pursuits like music or art; others discover it in physical activities like hiking or martial arts; still others access it through intellectual challenges like chess or language learning. The particular pathway matters less than its ability to engage your specific interests, capabilities, and sensibilities in ways that create genuine enjoyment.
What is important is that you enjoy them, and you do them. This dual emphasis on both appreciation and action forms the core of a healthy relationship with hobbies. Enjoyment without participation remains merely theoretical—a conceptual interest that never manifests in lived experience. Conversely, participation without enjoyment becomes another obligation in lives already burdened with responsibilities. The magic happens at the intersection: when we regularly engage in activities that reliably bring us pleasure, satisfaction, or meaning.
The doing part deserves particular emphasis in our era of passive consumption and vicarious experience. Watching cooking shows is not the same as cooking; reading about hiking differs fundamentally from traversing an actual trail; viewing dance performances offers a different experience than moving your own body to music. While appreciation of others’ mastery has its place, it cannot substitute for personal engagement. The transformative power of hobbies lies precisely in their participatory nature—in the lived experience of being a creator rather than merely a consumer.
This active engagement generates benefits that extend far beyond the discrete periods spent on the activity itself. Regular participation in enjoyable pursuits reduces stress, prevents burnout, creates psychological space between professional responsibilities and personal identity, fosters creative thinking applicable to other life domains, builds confidence through skill development, and provides concrete experiences of agency and autonomy in an increasingly prescribed world.
Perhaps most importantly, maintaining hobbies we genuinely enjoy connects us to an essential aspect of our humanity that transcends utilitarian value—our capacity for play, exploration, and engagement for its own sake. In a culture that increasingly evaluates worth through productivity metrics and market values, protecting these spaces of intrinsic motivation and meaningful activity becomes not merely a personal preference but a quiet form of resistance against the commodification of human experience.
So pick up that paintbrush, dust off that bicycle, cast that fishing line, or join that community chorus—not because you’ll excel, profit, or impress, but because something in the activity speaks to you and brings you joy. Begin where you are, with what you have, and without concern for where the path might lead. The only truly essential requirements are curiosity, willingness, and the courage to value your own enjoyment as reason enough.