8 Apr | Written By Hailey Ng

It’s ironic, isn’t it? How we crave free time, dreaming of all the hobbies we’ll pick up “someday,” only to find ourselves overwhelmed when we finally get the chance.

My list of “someday” activities — learn French, get flexible, pick up badminton — grew, but so did my stress. There I was, staring at the ceiling one evening and realising that my downtime was anything but relaxing. My hobbies, which were supposed to be my escape, have somehow morphed into another source of pressure, another set of tasks I’m failing to tick off. I suddenly realised that I was turning what I loved into a checklist of achievements. That’s no way to live.

Reading has always been a big part of my life. I used to dive into self-help books, armed with a highlighter and a notebook, ready to scribble down any insight that might make me a better person. While I didn’t mind this approach initially, it slowly turned into more of a chore than a relief, another item on my ever-growing list of self-improvement tasks. It was a stark contrast to my childhood days, when reading fiction felt like an escape, a chance to live someone else’s life for a bit. Unsurprisingly, over time, the joy of reading faded, replaced by a sense of obligation.

But recently, this perspective shifted.

It happened during a chat with a friend who was reading about semiconductors. I was baffled when he mentioned he didn’t take notes while reading something so technical. I asked why, and his response was a game-changer for me. “I read for leisure, not to pass exams,” he said. It was such a simple perspective, but it hit me hard.

This exchange made me take a step back and evaluate my intentions for starting a hobby in the first place. Wasn’t the whole point of a hobby that I could just enjoy it, without pursuing it with the intensity of a professional endeavour? When did the simple joy of learning and exploring at my own pace become overshadowed by the need to excel? In my scramble to do it all, I’m missing out on the pleasure of just being. It’s as if I’ve collectively forgotten how to enjoy something without the added pressure of having to be good at it.

This shift in perspective has been liberating. It’s a reminder that hobbies, like reading, aren’t just tools for productivity and self-improvement; they’re also our sanctuaries, meant to be savoured, not squeezed for value. I still find value in self-help books and the actionable advice they offer, but I’ve reintroduced fiction into my life, along with non-fiction topics I’m genuinely curious about, without the compulsion to take exhaustive notes. I now read because I want to, not because I feel I have to. It’s brought back the joy of reading for me, turning it back into the getaway it used to be.

And you know what? The world didn’t end because I wasn’t the best, or even particularly good, at any of these things. Instead, I found a kind of freedom I hadn’t felt in a long time — the freedom to enjoy something purely for what it is, without the looming shadow of self-imposed expectations.

In a world that can’t seem to sit still, maybe… just maybe… the bravest thing we can do is just that — sit still, breathe, and be. Sometimes, that may be all we really need to go on.