Latest / Still Standing: Stories of Resilience, Survival & Strength / Why Making Useless Things Is The Most Important Work You Do | Still Standing
Transcript
- I spent forty minutes yesterday making a clay bowl that will never hold soup, and it was the most honest thing I’ve done all week. We are so terrified of being useless that we forget how to be alive. Take a breath with me. Just one. Let your shoulders drop away from your ears. You know that feeling, don’t you? That tightness in your chest when you look at a blank page or a pile of laundry or a half-finished project and ask yourself, 'What is this for?' We live in a world that demands utility. If it doesn’t make money, if it doesn’t get posted, if it doesn’t solve a problem or optimize your morning routine, then what is the point? We have become efficient machines, grinding through our days, trying to extract value from every single hour. But here is the truth that keeps me up at night sometimes: efficiency is the enemy of joy. And purpose? Purpose isn’t always about building something that lasts. Sometimes, purpose is just about the act of creating something that exists only because you wanted it to. Let me tell you about my pottery disaster from last weekend. I went to a local studio, the kind with the smell of damp earth and the sound of water spinning on wheels. I sat down, centered my hands, and tried to pull up walls. What did that cost me? My ego, mostly. Because within three minutes, the whole thing collapsed into a wet, gray puddle. I didn’t stop. I just kept adding more clay, pressing it down, starting again. And then, I made a little cup. It’s lopsided. One side is thicker than the other. It holds exactly two ounces of water before leaking out onto my apron. It is objectively terrible. It is functionally useless. But as I held it in my hands, feeling the cool slip against my fingers, I felt a surge of something quiet and deep. I had made something out of nothing. Not for an audience. Not for a resume. Just for me. And in that small, flawed circle of clay, I found a peace I haven’t felt since I left my corporate job years ago. We need to talk about the lie we’ve been sold. The idea that if we aren’t producing, we aren’t worthy. Marissa, you’re a podcaster now, but even this show feels like work sometimes. I have to plan episodes, edit audio, write scripts. It’s output. It’s useful. But do you remember the last time you did something just because it felt good to move your body? Maybe you danced in your kitchen while making dinner. Maybe you drew a stick figure on a napkin. Maybe you arranged stones on your windowsill. These acts are not inefficiencies. They are antidotes. When we strip away the demand for productivity, we find ourselves again. We remember who we were before the world started asking us to perform. This episode is for the women who feel guilty for resting. For the women who feel guilty for creating art that no one will see. For the women who are tired of being useful. Last week, I thought about that episode we recorded where we talked about the courage to cry in public. It hit me hard then, and it hits me harder now. Grief is often described as a lack of utility. You can’t fix it. You can’t optimize it. You can’t post a thread about it that makes people feel better. It just sits there, heavy and useless. But what if grief is also a form of creation? What if, by holding space for our pain, we are crafting a vessel for our humanity? I think about the kintsugi artists who repair broken pottery with gold lacquer. They don’t hide the cracks; they highlight them. They make the breakage part of the beauty. When we create something useless—like a poem no one reads, or a garden for bees—we are doing the same thing. We are saying that the break is real, but the repair is beautiful. We are honoring the imperfection. We are letting the light in through the places where we’ve been shattered. So, what does this look like in practice? It looks like buying a sketchbook and drawing terrible faces. It looks like baking bread that tastes like salt because you were distracted thinking about your ex. It looks like writing a letter to a friend and then burning it because you didn’t want to send it. These are small acts of rebellion against a culture that wants you to be always-on, always-useful, always-available. Let’s sit in that for a second. How many hours did you spend today doing something that served no one but you? Did you hum along to a song? Did you watch the clouds drift by? Did you stare at the ceiling and let your mind wander? Those moments are not wasted. They are the glue that holds us together. They are the spaces where resilience grows. Resilience isn’t just bouncing back; it’s the ability to sit in the messy, unproductive middle and trust that you are still whole. I want to give you permission today. Permission to make something that will end up in the trash. Permission to sing off-key in the car. Permission to wear the outfit that doesn’t match because it makes you smile. Permission to rest without guilt. You do not owe the world your utility. You owe the world your presence. And your presence is best experienced when you are relaxed, playful, and free from the pressure to perform. Think about the children in your life. Watch how they play. They build forts out of chairs. They draw monsters on paper plates. They don’t ask, 'Is this functional?' They ask, 'Is this fun?' Or better yet, 'Is this true?' Try to remember that child inside you. The one who doesn’t care if the painting is good. The one who just wants to mix colors and see what happens. She is still there. She is waiting for you to pick up the brush again. Finding purpose in the useless is not about giving up on ambition. It’s about expanding your definition of success. Success can be a moment of clarity. Success can be a laugh that comes from nowhere. Success can be a bowl that leaks but feels like home in your hands. We are so used to measuring our worth by our output that we forget to measure it by our experience. When you create something useless, you are reclaiming your time. You are saying, 'This hour belongs to me.' You are saying, 'My joy matters more than your approval.' And that is a powerful thing. In a world that wants to consume everything, choosing to create something ephemeral is an act of defiance. It is a reminder that life is not a checklist. It is a collection of moments. Some are useful. Some are useless. All of them are yours. Thank you for sitting with me today. Thank you for being here, for listening, for showing up in your own imperfect, beautiful way. I’m Marissa Davidson, and I’ll be right here next week. Until then, go make something useless. I can’t wait to hear about it. Take care of yourself.