Latest / Style Project: Skincare, confidence & wellness / Why You Stopped Painting: Reclaiming Joy When Life Gets Heavy | Style Project
Transcript
- You used to have a thing you loved doing just for you, and now it’s gathering dust in the back of a closet. Let’s talk about why that guilt is lying to you. I want you to think about something right now. Not your inbox. Not the laundry pile that has achieved sentience. I want you to think about the last time you did something purely because it made your soul feel light. Maybe it was watercolor painting. Maybe it was hiking. Maybe it was writing terrible poetry at 2 a.m. If you can’t remember, or if the memory feels distant and fuzzy like an old photograph, take a deep breath. You are not alone. I see you. We’ve all been there. I’m talking about those hobbies we abandoned when life decided to throw a curveball. The ones we promised ourselves we’d return to 'when things calm down.' But here’s the truth: things rarely calm down. They just change shape. And somewhere along the way, we started treating our joy like a luxury item we could only afford when we had extra money and zero stress. Which is ridiculous, because joy isn’t a luxury. It’s oxygen. Let’s be real for a second. Why do we stop? Is it really because we’re too busy? Or is it because we feel guilty for taking time away from work, from family, from 'productive' things? I spent years as an editor where everything had a deadline, a metric, a bottom line. If it didn’t produce results, it didn’t exist. So when I tried to pick up my guitar again after leaving that world, I felt this heavy, suffocating shame every time I played a wrong note. I wasn’t performing for an audience. I was just making noise. And yet, I couldn’t enjoy it. I kept thinking, 'I should be answering emails instead.' That voice in your head? The one that says, 'You don’t deserve this break,' or 'This isn’t efficient'? It’s not your voice. It’s the voice of a system that wants you running on empty. It wants you to believe that rest is lazy and play is frivolous. But let me tell you something from experience: playing is not frivolous. It’s foundational. We need to dismantle this idea that everything must have a purpose. This is the trap of the pragmatic idealist in all of us. We want our hobbies to improve us, make us better artists, fitter bodies, smarter humans. But what if the point is just to be present? What if the goal of gardening is not to harvest tomatoes, but to feel the dirt under your fingernails and smell the rain? When we attach performance metrics to our leisure, we kill the very thing that sustains us. I remember trying to get into knitting during a particularly brutal winter. I bought expensive wool, watched tutorials, planned intricate patterns. Then I dropped a stitch, cursed, and threw the yarn across the room. I thought I had failed. But looking back, I realize I hadn’t failed. I had just realized that I needed something easier, softer, less demanding. And that’s okay. Your hobby doesn’t owe you mastery. It owes you peace. How many times have you said, 'When I lose ten pounds, then I’ll start yoga'? Or 'When I finish this project, then I’ll read for fun'? Someday is a dangerous place. It’s a waiting room where dreams go to die. Because 'someday' never comes with a clean slate. There will always be another task, another obligation, another reason to postpone your own happiness. I learned this the hard way. I waited until my career was 'stable' before I allowed myself to travel alone. By the time I felt ready, I was exhausted and afraid. So I urge you, gently but firmly, to start small today. Not tomorrow. Today. Pick up the sketchbook even if you haven’t drawn in five years. Put on the running shoes even if you only walk for ten minutes. Give yourself permission to be bad at it. Give yourself permission to be inconsistent. Consistency is overrated when it comes to joy. One messy, imperfect hour of doing what you love is worth more than a month of planning to do it perfectly. So how do we actually keep these hobbies alive when life gets busy? We protect them like precious resources. In my office, I have a little box of watercolor pencils. Every morning, before I check my phone, I draw one line. Just one. It might be a circle. It might be a squiggle. But it’s mine. It’s a tiny act of rebellion against the chaos of the day. It reminds me that I am still here, and I still create. You don’t need an hour. You don’t need a studio. You need five minutes of intentional presence. Close the door. Put your phone in another room. Light a candle if you want to be fancy. Create a boundary between the world and your joy. This isn’t selfishness. This is sustainability. You cannot pour from an empty cup, and you certainly cannot thrive without fuel. Your hobby is fuel. Treat it with the respect it deserves. Let’s normalize being beginners again. We live in a culture that celebrates expertise and hides struggle. We see polished Instagram feeds of perfect gardens and flawless pottery wheels. We don’t see the collapsed sheds or the cracked bowls. We compare our behind-the-scenes to everyone else’s highlight reel. Stop it. Right now. Give yourself grace. If you miss a week of knitting, no judgment. If you burn dinner while trying to cook a new recipe, laugh about it. These moments are part of the story. They’re proof that you’re trying. And trying is enough. You are enough, even on days when you can’t find the motivation to pick up your brush or put on your dancing shoes. Some days, just remembering that you had a hobby is enough. Acknowledge it. Honor it. Then try again tomorrow. No pressure. No expectations. Just you, and whatever brings you a spark of light. So here is my challenge to you this week. Identify one thing you used to love. Something small. Something simple. And invite it back into your life. Not as a commitment. Not as a goal. Just as a friend. A tentative, low-stakes friendship. Text it an invitation. 'Hey, want to hang out for twenty minutes?' See what happens. If it feels good, great. If it doesn’t, that’s okay too. You’ve opened the door. You’ve remembered that joy is still available to you. And that memory, that feeling, stays with you. It becomes a anchor in the storm. Life will continue to be busy. It will continue to be loud. But inside that quiet space you carve out, you will find a version of yourself that is whole, creative, and deeply alive. And that version is always waiting for you, just beneath the surface. Thank you for letting me into your evening. Be gentle with yourself today. I’ll see you next time. Bye for now.