In a world that monetizes creativity and gamifies self-worth, remembering how to enjoy something without an audience might be the most radical act of all.
 

By: Smriti Mamgain

I read a lot of comics as a teenager—X-Men: Evolution was my favorite. I still have every issue, along with the sketches I used to make of all the mutants. Those drawings are still some of my most prized possessions. I remember the thrill of finishing a sketch, comparing it to the original, and feeling that little rush of satisfaction when it turned out well. And when it didn’t? I just moved on to the next one.

Lately, though, I’ve noticed that I hardly pursue hobbies at all. Every time I reach for my sketchbook, I hesitate. What if what I make turns out bad, or ugly, or pointless? What’s the point of putting energy into something that doesn’t have a clear goal?

It was something I did purely for myself—not because I wanted to be an artist, or to impress anyone, but because it made me happy.

Because now, if I draw, it needs to be good enough to post on Instagram. Maybe it should go viral. Maybe it should turn into a small business.

In short, if I can’t monetize it, is it even worth doing?

Somewhere along the way, doing things “just because they make me happy” stopped feeling like enough.

Google defines a hobby as “an activity done for pleasure during one’s leisure time, not as a primary occupation.” By that definition, the only thing I consistently do that could count as a hobby is… watch Netflix.

But is watching TV really a hobby? It doesn’t feel like one. And I know I’m not alone in this. So why has it become so hard for many of us to engage in hobbies anymore?

Part of it might be the constant pressure we put on ourselves—thanks to social media, hustle culture, and the pressure to always be productive. We see people making picture-perfect meals, crafting flawless decor, or building thriving Etsy shops. We don’t register the years of quiet trial-and-error behind those posts—we just see the curated result.

If my poached eggs don’t look Pinterest-worthy, I’ll stick to fried. If my crochet flowers aren’t Instagram-perfect, why bother?

Have we become more competitive? Or just products of a hyper-capitalist culture that turns every interest into a revenue stream? Even “slow living” feels aspirational only when a millionaire documents it in perfect lighting.

But what about the quiet joys? The people who bake because it makes them feel good—not for a reel or a recipe blog. The ones who paint, write, sing, or dance simply because it brings them peace. No audience. No “brand.” Just being.

Those people exist. Maybe they’re not always visible online, but they’re still out there. And maybe we can be those people again—if we give ourselves permission to create for no reason at all. To embrace hobbies as self-care, not content. To return to joy, even if no one else ever sees it.