The Gentle Rebellion of Doing Things That Don’t Matter (But Actually Do)

There are nights where I sit hunched over a diamond painting, one tiny gem at a time, carefully pressing each one into its designated place. It’s absurd, really. Hours pass, and I have nothing to “show for it” but a sparkling portrait of a colourful flower or a moonlit forest — and a slightly aching neck.

But I swear, in those hours, I feel whole again.

And for someone who often feels like a body running on fumes, that wholeness means everything.

It’s strange, the way the world makes you feel guilty for doing things that don’t lead to an outcome. If something isn’t productive, profitable, or impressive, we’re told it’s a waste. If it can’t go on a resume or generate likes, then it’s indulgent. Useless.

But maybe the outcome is you still being here. Still breathing. Still able to feel a flicker of calm in a chaotic life. Isn’t that enough?

I’m starting to believe that doing seemingly useless things is a quiet kind of rebellion — and a necessary one.

I started diamond painting during a particularly anxious season in my life. The kind of time where your brain never really stops spinning, even when your body is begging you to rest. And somehow, that mindless repetition — pick up, press down, shimmer — soothed something primal in me.

No one’s paying me for it. I’m not posting my progress. I’m just… doing it. For the peace it brings.

And maybe peace is enough. Maybe peace is the point.

Sometimes I play cozy, calm video games — Stardew Valley, The Sims, even Animal Crossing. I don’t grind or aim for perfect efficiency. I name my chickens after inside jokes, plant flowers in weird shapes, and spend far too long decorating a fictional living room no one will ever see.

There’s this voice in my head that whispers, Shouldn’t you be reading something smart? Answering emails? Writing something real? But I ignore it. I let my inner child steer for a while.

And I don’t do it to numb myself — I do it to remember myself. The softest parts. The safest parts. The parts that don’t ask me to prove anything.

Because she’s still here — the little girl who made up whole lives for her stuffed animals, who spent afternoons building fairy houses out of moss and bark. She deserves a life too.

Letting her live a little now? That’s healing work.

I used to read to be “well-read.” You know the vibe — literary fiction, translated poetry, things you underline and pretend to understand fully. And while I still love those, I’ve fallen back in love with reading that doesn’t demand anything from me.

Lately, I’ve been devouring fantasy novels with morally gray protagonists and maps in the front. Romance stories that lean into their clichés and make me feel soft. Books where I don’t have to learn — I just get to feel.

No notes. No analysis. Just comfort.

We forget that reading can be an escape, not a self-improvement project. And we’re allowed to need escape. You’re allowed to just want to feel okay.

There are nights where I’ll lie in bed and let one song loop until it becomes part of me. I sing softly, sometimes not even real words, just sounds. Sometimes I cry. Sometimes I dance in the kitchen, very badly, with wet hair and no rhythm. Sometimes I replay a song so many times it becomes a little ritual.

Music doesn’t ask me to be useful. It just holds me where I am.

And sometimes, that’s all I need.

I don’t say this lightly: these “pointless” things have helped keep me alive.

And I know I’m not the only one.

There’s a quiet kind of grief in constantly feeling like you’re wasting time — even when all you’re doing is surviving.

But survival itself is sacred. And hobbies, however small, can be a lifeline.

When everything else in life feels urgent, hard, or performative, these tiny, gentle hobbies give me back my breath. They aren’t escape hatches — they’re oxygen masks. They remind me that I’m more than my grades, my output, or what I contribute to society.

I am a person before I am a producer, student, worker, writer.

You are too.

And I think a lot of people forget that — especially the ones who seem to be holding it all together. We forget we are allowed to waste time. To play. To wander. To be bad at things just because they make us feel good.

If you need permission, here it is. Breathe. Linger. Play. Heal.

The world often rewards visible achievements. Gold medals. Promotion posts. Public success.

But what about the quiet things?

What about finishing a diamond puzzle at 2 a.m. and smiling to yourself like a kid who just made something beautiful out of nothing? What about naming your in-game dog after someone you miss? What about singing a song to an empty room like it’s a sold-out concert? What about underlining a line in a fantasy book that hit you so hard it feels like a secret between you and the author?

These moments don’t get applause. But they matter. They’re sacred in their invisibility. Just because something isn’t seen doesn’t mean it isn’t saving you.

So here’s to the hobbies that don’t advance your career. The “meaningless” joys. The hours spent on puzzles, playlists, pixelated farms, and paperback worlds. Here’s to creating just because it makes your heart feel less like a clenched fist.

You don’t need to earn these moments. You don’t need to explain them.

You only need to honour the part of you that still believes in delight.

Let the world rush ahead. You, my love, are allowed to linger.

Originally posted on Medium: