Get A Hobby & Fail At It

A little risk, a little reward.

For years, I told myself I was too busy for a silly little hobby. But finally, last summer I carved out a Wednesday night, bought a big bag of grey clay, and committed to pottery class.

I wish I could brag about being a natural, but I wasn’t. In fact, I was pretty awful. Yet, with my teacher peering over my shoulder and course-correcting (taking the wheel), I slowly began to produce a collection of crooked bowls and mugs. Some lean listlessly to one side, others have been splashed with paint in a way that seems more like an oil spill than high art.

Work in progress.

Honestly, I often found the process frustrating to the point of being unenjoyable. I didn’t know what I was doing, and so, also didn’t know what I was doing wrong. More than once, I spun the wheel too fast and watched the whole blob dislodge and whip off, spewing sludge onto my face and pants. A disaster!

I’ve long felt a heavy anxiety around being bad at things — as if it’s a reflection of my worth as a person. As such, I sometimes feel scared to take risks because it means putting myself out there to fail. Letting myself fail at things has helped me redefine what growth really means. As a therapist once told me: “You’re a trophy chaser.”

I had a boss who referred to me as “so Type B,” a comment that always hurt my feelings. Did she not see how hard I was working? How seriously I took things? My easygoing vibe was just a defense. A way to shield myself from the brittleness of caring too much. I spent a large chunk of my 20s navigating a particularly nasty eating disorder, a coping mechanism to manage my severe anxiety. I’ve spent the last decade learning healthier ways to address feeling out of control. A hobby, it turns out, is a great place to practice that.

When Dylan and I first started playing tennis together, I was constantly sending balls flying into neighbors courts (sorry!) or lobbing them so high that they stuck in the fence behind him. A few years of fairly regular practice and I’ve begun to run him around the court, skimming a point off of him every once in a while.

As an impatient person, having an extremely patient partner as a guide has been both a mirror to my own behavior, teaching me to be kinder and less self-conscious in my learning process. He sees me start to get frustrated — huffing and crinkling my face — and he reminds me … It’s just not that serious (usually by way of a silly dance).

I’ve learned, as much as I once struggled to admit it, that in ceding control and getting uncomfortable I’ve experienced some of the biggest growth. Last year, a meaningful story I wrote got killed by the editor. I spent a good hour crying as I spiraled through self-indulgent thoughts about how it meant I was a horrible writer. Nothing novel, but in the moment it all felt like the world was closing in. And yet after that mopey hour, my thoughts shifted. Disappointment is the cost of vulnerability—and proof that I put myself out there.

The imperfect bowl.

As I sit and write this, next to me is a bowl full of grapes for snacking. It’s still a little crooked, but what once felt like a failure now feels like something to be proud of.

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