Happy May!
As you’d (hopefully) guess, our team spends a lot of time debating Big Wellness Questions. But we also make time for other pressing issues… like dating app discourse. More specifically, the (oft dreaded) hobby question.
The Apps bring an inevitable pressure to catalogue your hobbies, as well as a familiar twinge of judgment: Does that guy who lists “gardening” actually just keep one houseplant semi-alive? Does that woman truly enjoy fishing or is the fish pic simply a way to lure men? Is a man’s amateur trombone practice cute or cringe?
When we took the “What are your hobbies” question to our group chats, we were met with a surprising onslaught of spiraling (i.e. “Does anxiety count as a hobby?”). Our read is that people feel pressure to have hobbies, but can’t find time, direction, or outlets to cultivate them. “Ugh I feel guilty that I don’t have hobbies” was a near universal reply.
Yes, we probably all should have hobbies—as we’ve covered before, play for play’s sake has real health benefits. But why the guilt? Maybe there’s an easier way! Luckily, we have a devoted hobbyist in our midst, Ciara, who this week brings you the tale of her newfound passion for rockhounding. And if you feel inspired to find your own non-geologic hobby (hounding’s not for everyone; as someone who certainly doesn’t care to distinguish geodes from agates, I get it), we’ve got some tips for finding a hobby at the end too.
And in case you’re wondering, the group chat concurred that trombone is cute, so if that’s your thing… have at it.
Yours in hobby guilt solidarity,Jocelyn, Prism co-founder, potential birdwatcher or pizza maker?
Ciara is an-LA based creative strategist, rockhound, and community gatherer. One thing that makes her feel well: Waving at drivers from the freeway overpass.
The upside of rock bottom
I spent most of my twenties trying to heal. Going to talk therapy every week (even when it made me feel worse); trying to lose “the last five pounds” (even though contrary to the Kate Moss quote I had as my phone background in high school, everything tasted better than skinny felt); trying to change my attachment style (even though my ex and I just… didn’t work). I was running sprinting crawling towards some imagined moment when I’d finally prove that I was fixed and ready for the rest of my life. Instead, I hit rock bottom—which was, actually, a lot more enjoyable than I imagined.
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After a rough breakup and a particularly awful experience with an LA therapist who was actually just a very mid masseuse (true story lol stay safe out there), I took a 17 hour flight to visit my mom in Ireland. I was seeking healing—only this time, instead of overdosing on self-help books, healing looked like dips into the cold Irish Sea, sobs under Sessile Oak trees, and deep, guttural screams. Saturn return type shit.