A reflection of finding yourself again after spending your thirties keeping everything from falling apart

The other day, someone asked me what I do for fun, and I stared at them like they’d just asked me to explain quantum physics using only interpretive dance. Fun? Fun? I vaguely remember that concept from the Before Times—you know, before my life became an endless game of Responsibility Jenga, where pulling out the wrong block means forgetting to pay the water bill or missing that annual dental checkup you’ve been rescheduling for six months.

Somewhere between learning what a 401(k) is and developing strong opinions about dishwasher loading techniques, I seem to have misplaced the person I used to be. You know, the one who had interests. The one who could tell you their favorite band without having to google “popular music from the early 2000s.” The one who did things simply because they were enjoyable, not because they were “productive” or “building my professional network.”

The Hamster Wheel of Adulting

I was exposed to adult life and responsibilities at a very young age. Adult life is like being a circus performer who’s juggling flaming torches while riding a unicycle on a tightrope—except the torches are labeled “rent,” “career,” “health insurance,” and “remembering to buy toilet paper before you run out.” And someone keeps throwing more torches at you. “Here, catch this home repair emergency! Don’t drop the oil change appointment! Keep that work deadline in the air!” At some point, you’re so focused on not letting everything crash and burn that you forget to ask yourself: Wait, I don’t remember signing up for this circus?

I realized this the other day when I was scrolling through my phone before bed—my nightly ritual of turning my brain into mashed potatoes—and I saw a photo from fifteen years ago. There I was, covered in drywall dust, grinning like an idiot because I’d just finished mudding and taping a wall that looked like it had been textured by someone having a small earthquake. And the thing is? I was happy. Not “I successfully adulted today and no one died” happy, but genuinely, light-up-from-the-inside happy. Even though it was not my favorite job at the time, it was still a sense of accomplishment.

The Great Passion Excavation

So here I am, at 39 years old, conducting what I’m calling “The Great Passion Excavation”—essentially an archaeological dig through the layers of my younger self, brushing away decades of dust labeled “sensible career choices” and “age-appropriate behavior.” It’s like opening a time capsule, except instead of finding cool artifacts, you’re finding evidence of just how weird you used to be. Old dusty bone fragments of memories of what got me interested in the things I still love to this day. A guitar with two broken strings that you swore you’d learn to play “someday.” A box of old journals with entries of lyrics or poems I had written and weird doodles from being bored in class. A skateboard covered in stickers from bands I still love now and ones I can barely remember, collecting dust because you were convinced you’d become the next Mike V. (Spoiler: You are not the next Mike V. You are a “I should probably stretch before attempting a kickflip at this age” person.)

The thing is, life has a sneaky way of convincing you that growing up means growing away from the things you loved. We tell ourselves we don’t have time, we’re too tired, we have responsibilities, we should focus on “important” things. Our passions get downgraded from priorities to that “someday” list—you know, the one that lives right next to “organize the tool shed” and “read those books on the nightstand from 2019.”

The Permission Slip We Keep Forgetting to Sign

Here’s what I’m realizing: Nobody is going to give me permission to rediscover what makes me tick. There’s no boss who’s going to say, “You know what? Take the afternoon off and go do that thing you loved when you were 22.” There’s no adulting authority that hands out hall passes for joy. We’re waiting for the “right time”—when we get that promotion, when work calms down, when we’ve paid off the car, when we finally understand how cryptocurrency works (so, never). But the right time is a myth, like work-life balance or finding matching Tupperware lids on the first try. The truth is, we’re not going to suddenly have more time or energy in the future. We’re just going to have different torches to juggle. So maybe the secret is learning to juggle while occasionally putting down a torch and picking up that board. Even if you’re terrible. Especially if you’re terrible.

“You have 24 hours. Use them” – Arnold Schwarzenegger

Starting the Search Party

I’ve started small. Last week, I committed to writing for an hour every night, but no excuses. Do I have time for writing? Absolutely not. My calendar looks like a game of Tetris designed by a sadist. But I’ve been doing it anyway, and most of what I’ve written looks like it was crafted by someone having a caffeine-induced fever dream. It’s messy, and I don’t give a shit. It’s a starting point.

Here’s my invitation to you, fellow overwhelmed adult: What did you love before you got too busy to love anything? What made you lose track of time? What would you do if nobody was watching and judging whether it was “worth your time”? Maybe it’s sketching. Maybe it’s rock climbing. Maybe it’s building model trains or learning Italian or finally reading those graphic novels that aren’t about managing your anxiety or optimizing your productivity. Maybe it’s something you’ve never tried but always wondered about.

The point isn’t to become an expert or monetize your hobby or add it to your LinkedIn profile. The point is to remember that you’re more than the sum of your responsibilities. You’re allowed to do things just because they spark something inside you that’s been dormant since your twenties.

The Plot Twist

Here’s the funny thing about rediscovering your passions: It doesn’t actually make the juggling act easier. The torches are still flaming. The unicycle still wobbles. But somehow, you mind less. It’s like you’ve remembered why you signed up for the circus in the first place—not to become the world’s most efficient juggler, but because somewhere in all the chaos, there’s supposed to be joy.

So I’m giving myself permission to be bad at things again. To spend time on activities that don’t improve my resume or increase my earning potential or contribute to my retirement plan. To be, occasionally, slightly less responsible and slightly more alive.

Who’s with me? Let’s go dig up those time capsules. I’ll bring the terrible writings and doodles. You bring whatever weird thing you used to love. And if anyone asks what we’re doing, we’ll tell them we’re working on an important project. Which, when you think about it, we are—we’re working on remembering how to be ourselves again.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a date with a pen and paper and have absolutely no idea what I’m doing. It’s going to be terrible, and I can’t wait!

“Everyday is a blank page, what you do with it, determines how that page is written” – Me