I’ve been thinking lately about something kind of uncomfortable. Not in a tragic way, but in that quiet, creeping kind of way that makes you question how you’ve been moving through your days.
Do I actually like doing stuff?
Like… anything?
That sounds ridiculous on the surface, I know. Of course I do. I like food, I like laughing, I like a good sunset, and when I really think about it, I can name some hobbies and interests. But I’ve started to realize that there’s a difference between liking the idea of something and liking the actual doing of it.
Take drawing, for example. I’ve always considered myself someone who draws. It’s part of who I am. But lately, I catch myself putting it off. Or getting frustrated halfway through. Or feeling like I should be filming it, posting it, making it count somehow. So do I like drawing—or do I like having drawn?
Same with social stuff. Do I like being around people? Or do I just like feeling like I’m not completely isolated?
And then there's the bigger stuff—writing, working, exercising, even just leaving the house. Do I genuinely enjoy it, or am I just trying to make myself feel productive, useful, relevant?
I guess this is the part where I admit that I’m still figuring it out. I’m in this strange, in-between season where I’m trying to listen more closely to myself. To notice when I feel lit up. To catch those rare moments when I lose track of time. Because I think that’s where the real stuff lives. The stuff I actually like. Not the stuff I feel obligated to like. Not the stuff I do because I’ve always done it.
I want to rediscover what makes me feel alive, not just occupied.
So here’s my little check-in with myself. If I like something, great—I want to chase it. If I don’t, that’s okay too. I’m not going to force it anymore. Life’s too short to keep signing up for stuff that doesn’t fill your cup.
Anyway. That’s where I’m at today.