adult hobbies worth trying

nobody really tells you that adulthood is basically a long series of weekends where you’re trying to remember what it is you used to like doing before you became exhausted for a living. there’s something surreal about waking up at 28, 32, 39, and realizing that without work, errands, or social obligations, you’re not entirely sure what to do with yourself. the hours stretch out in front of you like an unfamiliar landscape. you could clean. you could reorganize your google drive. you could lie on the floor. all valid options. but sometimes, something quieter tugs at you—the idea that maybe, just maybe, you’re allowed to have joy that isn’t productive. maybe you’re still allowed to have hobbies.

when you’re younger, hobbies just happen to you. you draw badly in the margins of your math notebook. you join a club because your best friend does. you stumble into guitar lessons or soccer or baking because someone offers and you have nothing better to do. but adulthood, somehow, turns everything into a project. hobbies become side hustles. skills become monetized. even rest becomes content. and slowly, the idea of doing something badly, pointlessly, joyfully—for no reason except that it feels good—becomes a foreign language you forgot how to speak.

so lately, i’ve been trying to re-learn. not to be good at things. not to master them. but to remember what it feels like to live inside my life without constantly asking it to justify itself. hobbies, i’m realizing, are less about skill and more about permission. permission to be a beginner again. permission to be mediocre. permission to fail without consequences. permission to enjoy something even if you never get better at it.

and because the world feels heavy and strange and complicated most days, i’ve made a little list—a loose, affectionate collection of hobbies for adults who miss doing things just for the hell of it. hobbies that aren’t secretly productivity hacks. hobbies that don’t require you to post updates. hobbies that can just… exist, like an extra room in your life you didn’t realize you were allowed to build.

so, if you’re looking for a place to start, here are a few:

• learn how to make very bad pottery. the kind that wobbles, the kind you can’t gift anyone because the cup is a little too uneven to function. there’s something deeply therapeutic about forming something with your hands and letting it be bad on purpose. imperfection makes things warmer.

• keep a tiny herb garden, even if you only manage to keep the mint alive. there’s something about watering something small that isn’t yourself that feels quietly radical. plus, you get to feel like a wizard every time you snip fresh basil into your pasta.

• try birdwatching, even in a city. it’s absurd how many kinds of birds exist if you actually look up once in a while. you start noticing details you used to flatten out—the glint of a feather, the weird hop some pigeons do when they think they’re being sneaky. it’s a hobby that asks nothing of you except attention.

• pick up calligraphy or hand lettering. not because you’ll turn it into a wedding invitation side hustle (you might, but you don’t have to), but because there’s something oddly meditative about the slow curve of ink across paper. it reminds you that beauty can happen one careful line at a time.

• learn how to make a cocktail you like—or mocktail, if that’s your thing. make a ritual out of it. light a candle. slice the lime properly. pretend you’re the bartender of your own small, extremely unprofitable speakeasy where the only customer is you.

• buy an old-school jigsaw puzzle and leave it half-finished on your dining table for weeks. the slow progress, the fitting together of strange little pieces, feels strangely hopeful on days when your actual life feels like an unsolvable mess.

• take photos without trying to be a photographer. the point isn’t to build a portfolio. the point is to remember what it feels like to notice light and color and weird little moments that disappear if you don’t catch them.

• learn to knit badly. you’ll make lumpy scarves and tiny wonky blankets that no one really wants. but the repetitive motion, the slow growth of something under your fingers, the tangible proof that time passed and you made something with it—it’s ridiculously comforting.

• start journaling without pressure. not because you’re writing your memoir. not because you need to track your goals. just because sometimes the brain needs somewhere to put its clutter before it eats you alive. you don’t even have to reread it. sometimes the writing is the whole point.

• find a weirdly specific youtube niche to fall into. medieval cooking tutorials. people restoring antique furniture. rollercoaster history documentaries. niche internet rabbit holes are underrated sources of quiet joy.

• practice bad dancing. not for cardio. not for body goals. just because moving badly and unselfconsciously in your own kitchen to a song you forgot you loved is one of the purest adult joys there is.

• paint thrifted mugs.

• volunteer to walk dogs at a shelter.

• learn how to embroider bad words onto pretty fabric.

• bake terrible bread that refuses to rise.

• attempt to fix your own bike and fail charmingly.

• make friendship bracelets for nobody.

• write poems you never show anyone.

• invent a signature omelette.

• memorize poetry for no reason.

• learn how to shuffle a deck of cards really, really dramatically.

• junk journaling: turn your everyday scraps—receipts, tickets, packaging—into beautiful, messy journals. it’s sustainable, deeply personal, and strangely addictive.

• stained glass crafting: working with colorful glass pieces to make tiny windows of joy. it’s surprisingly beginner-friendly (and you get to feel like a medieval artisan).

• cozy “grandma” hobbies: knitting, crocheting, sewing—slow crafts are back in style. there’s something grounding about making things with your hands at your own pace.

• diamond painting: part cross-stitch, part paint-by-numbers, you place tiny sparkling “diamonds” on canvas to create shimmering, meditative art. bonus: it’s weirdly satisfying.

• adult ballet and dance classes: ballet slippers, barre work, and beginner dance classes are trending—adults are rediscovering movement for joy, not performance.

• punch needle embroidery: this textured, colorful embroidery is like painting with yarn. beginner-friendly, no perfection required, highly therapeutic.

• candle making: mix your own scents, pour your own candles, and suddenly your home smells like a spa. deeply cozy energy.

• beaded jewelry making: stringing tiny beads into wearable art. soothing, creative, and you end up with earrings or bracelets you can actually brag about.

none of these things will make you famous. none of them will get you promoted. you probably won’t even be that good at most of them. but that’s the point. hobbies don’t exist to make you better at life. they exist to make life a little better while you’re living it.

there’s something very tender about carving out space for joy that isn’t optimized or monetized. it feels rebellious, almost, in a world where every free minute is supposed to be a building block for something greater. sometimes what you need isn’t greater. sometimes what you need is smaller. softer. sillier. less impressive, more yours.

adulthood tries to sell us on the idea that fulfillment is always just a few achievements away—that if we work harder, streamline better, wake up earlier, we’ll finally arrive at a life that feels full. but i think the fullness sneaks up on you when you’re paying attention to very small things. the stupid crossword you do while eating cereal. the bike rides you take to nowhere. the awkward ukulele songs you practice on your lunch break. the mint you manage not to kill.

i don’t think hobbies will fix all the ways the world feels heavy. but i do think they can make it easier to survive—and even to love—an ordinary, unoptimized, fully alive life.

and honestly, that feels like a hobby worth having.