Latest / Style Room: Skincare, confidence & wellness / Why I’m Fixing My Bike Instead of Buying New | Style Room
Transcript
- I found a rusted, skeletal frame in my garage this morning that looked less like a bicycle and more like a failed art project. But as I wiped the dust off the handlebars, I realized I was looking at a mirror for my own life. Let’s start with the mess. You know how we all have that one corner of our house where time seems to stop? The closet full of clothes from three relationships ago? The drawer of tangled chargers? Well, mine is the garage, specifically a pile of cardboard boxes that have been sitting there since last autumn. And buried under a tarp that smelled faintly of damp earth and regret was this bicycle. It wasn’t just old; it was ancient. The paint was chipped away in places that looked like scars, the tires were flat and cracked, and the chain had fused into a single, rusty metal rope. Most people would have looked at this thing and seen trash. They would have walked past it on their way to the nearest big-box store, swiped their card, and bought a shiny new bike that cost half their monthly grocery budget. But I didn’t. I sat down on the cold concrete floor, pulled out my gloves, and felt this strange, quiet pull in my chest. It wasn’t about transportation. It was about restoration. About taking something broken and saying, 'You still have value.' I’ve spent years telling you, my dear listeners, that your worth isn’t determined by your skin texture or your age or how well you fit into your jeans. But seeing this bike made me realize how deeply I’ve internalized the idea that if something isn’t perfect, it should be discarded. That mindset doesn’t just apply to beauty products or bodies. It applies to us. To our hobbies. To our passions. We treat ourselves like disposable items. We buy a journal, write two pages, feel guilty that it’s not perfect, and toss it. We try a workout routine, miss one day, and quit. This bike was asking me to stop discarding and start repairing. We live in an era that glorifies the new. The new phone, the new diet trend, the new skincare ingredient that promises to erase ten years of existence in twelve minutes. It’s exhausting, isn’t it? I remember when I was working as a dermatology nurse, patients would come in desperate for a miracle cream because they saw an ad for a 'brand new' formulation. They wanted the shortcut. They wanted the instant fix without the labor. But here is the truth that the marketing departments don’t want you to hear: there is no shortcut to mastery, and there is no shortcut to joy. When you buy something brand new, you get convenience, sure. But you don’t get connection. You don’t get the story. A new bike is just a product. It has no history with you. It has no resistance to overcome. But this rusted frame? It has challenges. Every bolt that refuses to budge teaches you patience. Every piece of grease under your fingernails reminds you that you are getting your hands dirty, literally engaging with the world rather than just consuming it. I used to think that fixing things was a chore, something to be done quickly so I could get back to my life. Now I see it as the life itself. The act of restoring is where the mindfulness lives. It’s not about the ride at the end; it’s about the hours in between. It’s about being present enough to notice which screwdriver fits the head, to listen to the click of a gear engaging properly. In a world that screams at us to move faster, to upgrade constantly, to replace the old with the new, choosing to repair is a radical act of rebellion. It says, 'I am willing to invest my time. I am willing to struggle a little. I believe this thing—and by extension, I believe myself—is worth saving.' Let’s look at the ingredients, not the hype, when it comes to mental health. We often talk about therapy, meditation, and supplements as the only ways to heal. And those are wonderful tools. But sometimes, healing is tactile. Sometimes, your brain needs to feel the weight of a wrench. There is something profoundly grounding about working with your hands. When I’m struggling with anxiety, or feeling scattered after a long day of work, sitting on the garage floor with this bike forces me to slow down. I can’t rush physics. I can’t hurry the rust off a bolt. If I force it, I strip the thread, and then I’ve made it worse. So I have to wait. I have to soak. I have to apply penetrating oil and give it time. It sounds simple, but applying that logic to our lives is hard. We want to fix our burnout instantly. We want to resolve our conflicts in five minutes. But real restoration takes time. It takes layers. As I cleaned each part, I noticed details I would have missed otherwise. A tiny scratch on the pedal from a fall years ago. A sticker residue from a childhood memory I can’t quite place. These small imperfections weren’t flaws to hide; they were evidence of use. Of living. And that’s what I want for you. I want you to stop trying to polish away every mark on your soul. Some of these marks are just proof that you showed up. They’re proof that you tried. When I tightened the brake cables today, my hands shook a little. Not from fear, but from anticipation. I was afraid I wouldn’t get it right. But I did. Or rather, I will. And the process of trying is where the confidence grows. It’s not innate. It’s built, bolt by bolt, stroke by stroke. This brings me back to my core message, which might surprise you coming from a former nurse who loves a good retinol serum. Glow from the inside out, literally. But let’s redefine what glow means. It’s not just clear skin. It’s clarity of purpose. It’s the satisfaction of knowing you contributed to something’s survival. When I finish a session on this bike, even if I only managed to remove one ring of rust, I feel a specific kind of pride. It’s quiet. It doesn’t need an Instagram post. It doesn’t need likes. It just sits in my chest, warm and steady. That is a sustainable form of happiness. Consumerism gives us a spike of dopamine—the thrill of the unboxing, the novelty of the new. But it fades fast. The next box arrives, and the feeling is gone. Restoration gives you serotonin. It’s the slower, steadier chemical reward of competence. Of problem-solving. Of care. I see so many women treating themselves like projects that need constant updating. If your hair is frizzy, buy this spray. If you’re tired, drink this powder. If you’re sad, buy this dress. But what if you treated yourself like a vintage car? What if you said, 'Okay, I’m showing some wear. Let’s check the fluids. Let’s tighten the bolts. Let’s give me a little TLC.' That’s not vanity. That’s maintenance. That’s respect. And when you respect yourself, you stop seeking validation from external sources. You start finding it in the act of caring for your own life. The bike doesn’t care if I have a bad hair day. It doesn’t care if I’m stressed about work. It only cares if I show up and do the work. And in its silent, mechanical way, it forgives me when I make mistakes. It allows me to try again. That forgiveness is precious. It’s the same forgiveness we need to offer ourselves daily. I know some of you are thinking, 'Robin, I don’t have time for this. I have a job, kids, a partner, a social life. How can I possibly spend hours in a garage?' And I hear you. I really do. Life is loud. It is demanding. It pulls you in ten different directions at once. But that’s exactly why you need a pause button. And for me, that button is this bike. For you, it might be baking bread. It might be knitting. It might be repotting your plants. It doesn’t matter what the activity is. What matters is that it requires your full attention. It cannot be multitasked. You can’t watch Netflix while you’re adjusting a derailleur. You can’t scroll through emails while you’re mixing epoxy. You have to be here. Now. In this moment. With your hands. This is where the healing happens. Not in the escape, but in the engagement. It’s okay to pause. It’s okay to step away from the noise and focus on something tangible. Something that responds to your effort. When you restore something, you prove to yourself that you have agency. That you can change the state of things. That you are not just a passive observer of your life, but an active participant. And that sense of control is vital when everything else feels chaotic. So if you haven’t started your project yet, don’t worry about the timeline. Don’t worry about doing it perfectly. Just start. Pick one bolt. One stitch. One page. Start small. The rest will follow. And remember, I’m right here with you. Not judging your rust, but celebrating your repair. Thank you for letting me share my messy, greasy, beautiful garage with you today. Keep your hands busy and your heart open. I’ll see you in the next one. Bye for now.