Hobbies

For most of my life, I’ve been someone who defines myself through hobbies. I’ve always been fascinated by the small rituals that surround everyday life. The things that transform ordinary moments into experiences worth paying attention to.

But somewhere along the way, I lost that.

When I came to college, life became increasingly optimized around work. My days filled with classes, projects, research, internships, recruiting, meetings, and deadlines. Every hour seemed to have a measurable purpose.

Without realizing it, I slowly optimized away nearly everything that didn’t have an obvious return.

My hobbies disappeared.

Not all at once, but gradually. I stopped making time for the things that once made me feel grounded because they seemed inefficient. Why listen to an entire album when Spotify can shuffle songs endlessly? Why cook elaborate dinners when meal prep exists?

None of these choices felt significant individually.

Together, they fundamentally changed how I experienced my days.

Over the past year, I’ve made a conscious effort to reverse that trend. Rather than searching for one defining hobby, I’ve tried to rebuild a collection of small rituals. Activities that ask me to slow down, to pay attention, and to enjoy the process rather than rush toward the outcome.

I’ve noticed something interesting.

Almost every hobby I’ve fallen back in love with shares one characteristic.

They all introduce a little bit of friction.

Not frustrating friction.

Intentional friction.

The kind that prevents life from becoming automatic.

The Morning Ritual

Traditional wet shaving is probably the clearest example.

Objectively, it’s a worse solution than buying a cartridge razor and finishing in three minutes.

Instead I soak a shaving brush, warm a ceramic scuttle, build a rich lather from an artisan soap, shave with a safety razor that asks for careful attention, finish with a styptic pencil if I get careless, and end with a calming aftershave balm.

The process isn’t valuable because it’s efficient.

It’s valuable because it refuses to let me rush.

The same philosophy extends into skincare. Cleansing, hydration, vitamin C, exfoliation, moisturizer, sunscreen. None of it is particularly exciting on its own, but together they create a few quiet minutes each morning where the day hasn’t yet accelerated beyond my control.

Listening Instead of Consuming

Music became another place where I wanted more friction.

Streaming services have made every song instantly available, yet I found myself listening less carefully than ever before.

Vinyl changed that.

Choosing an album, lowering the needle, sitting through an entire side before getting up to flip the record. It transforms music from background noise into an event.

Ironically, I still love digital audio. My setup happily switches between vinyl and lossless playback from my laptop.

It’s not about rejecting technology.

It’s about choosing the experience that encourages attention.

Tasting with Intention

Tea and chocolate became similar exercises.

Aged pu-erh teas reward patience. Their character unfolds over many infusions, each steep revealing something slightly different from the last.

High-percentage artisan chocolate asks for the same thing. Instead of treating chocolate like candy, you begin to notice texture, bitterness, fruit, acidity, and aromas that disappear if you simply eat the bar absentmindedly.

These are tiny experiences.

But they remind me how much richness exists in everyday life when I stop trying to get through it as quickly as possible.

Setting the Atmosphere

Lately I’ve found myself paying more attention to the spaces where these rituals happen.

A candle lit before settling into a film. A diffuser filling the room with cedar, bergamot, or eucalyptus while I read or work. The warm glow of a lamp replacing the harsh light overhead as evening sets in.

None of these things changes what I’m doing.

They change how it feels to do it.

I’ve realized that experiences aren’t made up only of the activity itself. They’re shaped by the environment surrounding it. The music, the lighting, the scent, the quiet details that are easy to overlook until they’re absent.

Like so many of my hobbies, these small choices ask me to slow down just enough to notice where I am instead of rushing toward whatever comes next.

Creating Experiences

Cooking eventually became less about making dinner and more about designing evenings.

I love planning multi-course menus, exploring regional cuisines, coordinating timing across multiple dishes, and inviting people over to share the result.

The meal is only part of the experience.

The planning is satisfying.

The logistics are satisfying.

The conversations that happen around the table are satisfying.

The goal isn’t simply to eat.

It’s to create something memorable.

Activities That Resist Optimization

Mountain biking occupies a different space.

Unlike many of my hobbies, it isn’t quiet.

I ride a custom-built Chromag Stylus, a steel hardtail with 26-inch wheels. In a world that’s steadily moved toward larger wheels and more suspension, it’s an unapologetically direct bike. It doesn’t smooth over the trail. It gives more of it back.

You feel the roots, the rocks, and every line choice beneath your tires. The bike asks you to work with the terrain instead of floating above it.

Like many of the things I enjoy, it’s a deliberate choice to embrace a little more friction.

But mountain biking offers something the rest of my hobbies don’t.

It demands complete presence.

On a technical descent, there is no room to think about emails, research, or tomorrow’s deadlines. Every corner requires attention. Every mistake has immediate consequences. For an hour or two, the rest of the world simply disappears.

Twist Puzzles

I learned to solve Rubik’s Cubes in middle school, and for a while speed was the entire goal. I’d time every solve, memorize faster algorithms, and chase smaller and smaller numbers on the timer.

When I returned to twist puzzles recently, I expected to pick up where I left off.

Instead, I found myself reaching for the 5x5.

A larger cube resists speed in a way the 3x3 doesn’t. There are more pieces to track, more parity cases to navigate, and enough repetition that the solve naturally settles into a rhythm. It feels less like a race and more like a meditation.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped caring how quickly I could solve a puzzle.

What I missed wasn’t the competition. It was the quiet satisfaction of watching disorder slowly become order, one layer at a time.

Watching Films Slowly

Perhaps no hobby reflects this philosophy more than cinema.

I’ve become increasingly interested in films that reward repeated viewing rather than immediate gratification.

Many of my favorite films, whether 2001: A Space Odyssey, Stalker, Yi Yi, Persona, or La Jetée, reveal themselves gradually over time. They’re films that ask something from the viewer.

I’ve noticed that the movies I return to most often are rarely the easiest to watch.

They invite contemplation instead of consumption.

I’ve even found that writing about them has become part of the experience. A film doesn’t necessarily end when the credits roll. Sometimes it continues evolving in your mind for weeks afterward.

Small Objects, Long Relationships

As I’ve entered adulthood, I’ve found myself increasingly drawn to objects that are meant to age alongside the people who own them.

There’s something deeply satisfying about buying something with the expectation that it will still be with you decades from now. Shoes that can be resoled. A leather wallet that develops a patina instead of being replaced. Tools that become more personal with use rather than less desirable.

A mechanical watch whose tiny movement quietly marks the passing of time.

A wooden mechanical keyboard whose switches make typing feel deliberate instead of disposable.

None of these purchases make practical sense if efficiency is the only metric.

But that’s exactly the point.

They’re small reminders that the objects surrounding us don’t have to be invisible. They can ask us to slow down, to care for them, and in return become companions that gather stories alongside us.

The Common Thread

Looking back, these hobbies seem unrelated.

Shaving.

Tea.

Vinyl.

Cooking.

Mountain biking.

Film.

Mechanical watches.

Keyboards.

Board games.

Twist puzzles.

But I don’t think they’re actually different hobbies at all.

I think they’re expressions of the same instinct.

They all reject the assumption that faster is automatically better.

They all replace convenience with engagement.

They all ask me to participate instead of passively consume.

College taught me how to optimize.

It taught me how to work harder, move faster, and accomplish more than I ever thought possible.

I’m grateful for that.

But somewhere along the way I forgot that not every part of life should be optimized.

Some moments deserve to be intentionally inefficient.

The extra ten minutes spent preparing tea.

The album played from beginning to end.

The careful morning shave.

The dinner that takes all afternoon to prepare.

The film watched for the fifth time because you suspect it still has something left to say.

The 5x5 solved without checking the clock.

Those moments aren’t interruptions to life.

For me, they are life.

I’ve realized that what I was searching for wasn’t a collection of hobbies.

I was searching for a way of paying attention again.