A skilled guitarist’s 30-second video of a solo does not represent the many years dedicated to honing their craft. Similarly, a professional painter’s timelapse of an oil painting glosses over the many failed pieces and discarded canvases.
Nowadays, hobbies and interests exist to be seen, not to be genuine expressions of personality.
Social media apps, especially hobby sharing ones like Letterboxd, Strava, and TikTok, all have one thing in common: They are tools used to craft an identity for an audience. When we track everything we do, we prioritize aesthetics over substance to curate our online personas. The commodification of our hobbies leads us to rely on external validation and is the ultimate enemy of self-fulfillment.
The first source of an artistic idea often comes from social media, where people showcase impressive passion projects and perfect final products. Constant exposure to these
ideas — and how much attention and engagement they receive — is a breeding ground for unhealthy comparison. It pressures us to compete with those we see online and place value on the hobby based on our skill level and the attention it attracts, rather than our enjoyment.
Social media encourages us to perform and perfect, sending a subtle message that a hobby is only worth starting if it is also worth sharing. This pressure is reflected in a 2024 poll by The National Lottery which found that 34% of 4,000 adults in the U.K. acknowledge that spending time on social media prevents them from pursuing their interests. Rather than finding motivation to grow from watching others master our interests, we are often paralyzed by the possibility of mediocrity, even as complete novices.
Even when we do manage to overcome this paralysis, we face the pressure of feeding into hustle culture. When a hobby shows potential as a career path, people may lose interest in pursuing it further if that potential isn’t actualized.
Take Instagram as an example, where artists can redirect users to other platforms such as Etsy or SoundCloud, where artwork becomes a product. Its monetary value transforms it into a second job, defeating its original purpose — an outlet for creativity and a break from work, not another source of it. And on TikTok, where musicians feel their song’s success is dependent on viewership and engagement, people ultimately sacrifice self-fulfillment for the sake of the algorithm.
Although most hobbies don’t serve as a source of income, we can fall into the trap of using them to chase uniqueness. We have access to every possible idea, personality trait, and interest, so we begin to search for something that is unique to us — a movie unbeknownst to friends on Letterboxd, a difficult segment on Strava, or something that has not yet been claimed by a performative male.
Hobby sharing apps let us showcase how far we can deviate from the mainstream, solidifying our status as the “most into” our hobbies. Fear of becoming average kills the enthusiasm for enjoying something for ourselves, not for the validation of being perceived as unique.
Our constant need to publicize what we do in our alone time is diminishing our drive to experiment with activities for the sake of curiosity and trying something new. The next time you are interested in starting a new hobby, don’t feel pressured to share it online, make it a side hustle, or master it. Our hobbies are meant for us to experiment with being a beginner without the pressure of being average. So, put down the phone, tune out the noise, and indulge without judgment.
