No one really prepares you for the strange emptiness of adulthood’s free time. Not the big holidays or the special occasions—but the ordinary, quiet weekends when the calendar clears and you’re left alone with yourself. You wake up, shuffle into the day, and realize you have no idea what to do. Not because there’s nothing to be done, but because somewhere along the way, you forgot what it feels like to want something that isn’t necessary.
You could clean the bathroom. You could color-code your inbox. You could scroll until your brain turns to static. You could lie on the floor and call it grounding. All legitimate options. But then there’s a different kind of pull—something softer, smaller. A voice that wonders, “What happened to the things I used to love? When did fun start requiring justification?”
It’s easy to forget, but once upon a time, you didn’t need a reason to enjoy yourself. When you’re a kid, hobbies arrive like stray cats—you don’t go looking for them, they just show up and stay awhile. You doodle in the corners of your school books. You join the drama club because your best friend begs you to audition. You try the flute, or netball, or gardening, and none of it is for a purpose. It’s just play. Just curiosity.
But then something shifts. You grow up. And suddenly, every passion has to be productive. Every interest has to be impressive. The joy of doing slowly becomes the pressure of proving. Rest becomes content. Hobbies become monetisable skills. You start to feel like anything that isn’t contributing to your career, your image, your goals—isn’t worth the time. And the part of you that used to make just for the hell of it? She goes quiet.
Lately, I’ve been trying to find her again.
Since losing my job, I’ve unexpectedly fallen in love with puzzling. At first, it was just something to keep my restless hands busy while I listened to audiobooks. But somewhere along the way, it became more than that. It became a small, gentle joy I could return to without pressure or purpose. I’ve found myself lingering in the puzzle aisle at Waterstones, running my fingers over boxes of a thousand tiny pieces, imagining the calm of piecing something whole together, bit by bit.
In the weeks leading up to the wedding, B and I tackled a 500-piece puzzle of a Japanese painting. It took weeks mostly because we left the hardest part last — the upper half of the puzzle was an entirely white sky. We spent hours trying piece after piece, guessing where each bit of blank sky might fit, growing increasingly frustrated. In the end, it was a bit of a disaster. But still, there was this strange, childlike delight in placing the final piece. It made me want to do it again. Not to be good at it. Just to enjoy it.
A few weeks later, I bought another one: 500 pieces, a soft pastel illustration of a coffee shop. I put on an audiobook and sat down on a Sunday afternoon—and four hours later, I looked up and it was done. I hadn’t moved once. It’s still sitting on my dining table, quietly waiting for whatever comes next. Since then, I’ve bought three more puzzles that sit idling by, waiting to be built—silent promises of slow, satisfying afternoons I haven’t quite made time for yet.
Not everything has to become a thing. Sometimes it can just be a moment you make room for.
I’m learning that hobbies aren’t really about talent. They’re about permission. Permission to start as a beginner. To be average. To do something badly and still find it beautiful. To enjoy yourself for no other reason than because you can.
This won’t earn me money, won’t build a personal brand. I’ll probably never be particularly good at it and may eventually abandon this as a hobby.
But maybe that’s the point.
Maybe these tiny, unimportant joys are how we sneak life back into our lives. Maybe they’re how we remember who we were before we got so good at performing being fine. Maybe they’re how we create space—not just for fun, but for aliveness. For the version of ourselves that doesn’t need to win, impress, or achieve—just feel something real.
There’s this quiet lie we grow into — that if we’re productive enough, polished enough, consistent enough, we’ll earn a version of life that finally feels good. That fulfillment is waiting just beyond the next promotion, or the cleaner inbox, or the new habit tracked with the coloured boxes. But lately, I’m starting to think that feeling of fullness doesn’t come in well-executed plans. It sneaks in quietly, through the side door. It’s in the silly little Spotify playlist you make for walking to the shop. The wonky, half-knitted scarf that no one asked for. Puzzling at the dinner table just because. Writing words like these, quietly, for no one but myself. That’s the good stuff. That’s the life, quietly happening.
No, hobbies won’t get me a new job, but they’ll make time more bearable — make life worth living. They might even save a part of me.The part that’s tired of being efficient. The part that misses wonder. The part that’s still quietly waiting for permission.
And maybe that’s reason enough to begin.