The Death of Hobbies | By Lim Zhen Ping
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| Illustration by @Najaame_ |
There was a time when having a hobby meant very little to anyone but you. It did not need to be good, useful, or seen. It did not need to lead anywhere. It simply existed as something you enjoyed, something that filled time without needing to justify itself.
Somewhere along the way, that version of hobbies disappeared. Not suddenly, not dramatically, but quietly enough that most of us did not notice it happening.
Now, the moment you pick something up, it is evaluated for its potential. Bake a cake, and someone asks if you are selling it. Learn to crochet, and you are told to open a shop. Start going to the gym, and it becomes content. What used to be a personal interest quickly turns into something outward-facing, something that could be shared, or turned into something profitable.
For university students, this shift feels almost unavoidable. We are constantly surrounded by the idea that we should be building something, improving something, or becoming something. Free time begins to feel less like a break and more like an opportunity. If you are not using it to gain experience or create value, it can feel like you are falling behind.
Hobbies, in the way they once existed, are slowly disappearing. What replaces them looks similar on the surface, but carries a different expectation. It is no longer enough to enjoy something. It has to go somewhere.
Disappearance of Free Time
What has changed is not just how we spend our time, but how we understand it. Free time used to mean the absence of obligation. Now, it often feels like unclaimed potential. Something that could be used better, something that should not be wasted.
This way of thinking does not come from nowhere. We grow up in systems where almost everything is measured, evaluated, and compared. Over time, that logic extends beyond academics or careers and begins to shape how we see our personal lives. The idea that time should always be productive does not stop when the workday ends. It follows us into our evenings, weekends, even the spaces that were once meant to be separate.
In this context, leisure stops feeling neutral. It becomes a resource. And like any resource, it feels irresponsible not to use it well.
For students, the pressure is constant. There is always something to prepare for, something to improve, something to build. The result is that free time no longer feels like an escape from expectation. It feels like another version of it.
The Guilt of Rest
One of the clearest signs of this shift is how difficult it has become to rest without explanation. Rest now comes with conditions. It needs to be earned or justified. Taking a break feels acceptable after completing something, but much less so on its own.
This creates a quiet but persistent sense of guilt. You might be watching something, scrolling, or even engaging in a hobby, but part of your mind remains elsewhere, asking whether this time could be used more effectively. The experience is familiar. You are technically resting, but it does not feel like rest.
Over time, this changes how we relate to ourselves. When we are consistently rewarded for productivity, we begin to associate our worth with output. Doing nothing, or doing something that leads nowhere, feels like a break in that identity. It creates discomfort, not because rest is wrong, but because it interrupts what we have learned to value.
This is where hobbies begin to lose their original purpose. If an activity cannot be measured or improved, it starts to feel less valid. And when enjoyment itself requires validation, it stops feeling like enjoyment.
Side Hustle Culture Takeover
Side hustle culture did not take over simply because it was appealing. It took over because it made sense. We are living in a landscape where stability feels uncertain, and competition feels constant. Relying on a single path can feel risky. Having something on the side, whether a skill, an income stream, even just a fallback, offers a sense of control. It feels like preparation.
For university students, this logic is reinforced constantly. We are told to stand out, diversify, and make ourselves more employable. Everything we do is evaluated for how it might contribute to that goal. Hobbies are no exception. If something can be turned into experience, income, or visibility, it feels almost irresponsible not to try.
But in doing so, leisure becomes strategic. Instead of asking what we feel like doing, we ask what would be useful to do. One is guided by interest, the other by outcome. When outcome becomes the priority, enjoyment becomes secondary.
This is how hobbies, as they once existed, begin to fade. Not because we no longer care about enjoyment, but because we have learned to prioritise security. Not a single cause, but a combination of pressures that slowly reshape what hobbies are allowed to be.
Buried Together
As hobbies become tied to outcomes, something else dies alongside them. The most immediate loss is freedom. The freedom to do something without expectation or the need for it to lead anywhere.
There is also a loss of privacy. Not everything needs to be shared to be meaningful, but the instinct to document can make it feel otherwise. When experiences are constantly externalised, they risk becoming performances rather than moments. The value shifts from how something feels to how it is received.
More than anything, what disappears is a space where you are allowed to exist without being productive. A space where nothing is being measured or evaluated. That space is difficult to maintain in a culture that places so much emphasis on output.
Hobbies were once that space. In many ways, they no longer are.
Reclaiming What's Left
Maybe hobbies have not disappeared completely. Maybe they have just been buried under expectations, waiting for permission to exist again.
Reclaiming them does not require rejecting ambition or productivity altogether. It might begin with something smaller. Letting one thing in your life remain untouched by the need to become something more.
What would happen if you let yourself be bad at something again? If you painted and never posted it? If you ran without tracking it? If you read without feeling the need to review?
These are small choices, but they challenge something larger. The idea that everything you do needs to lead somewhere.
Because not everything does.
Some things can stay unfinished. Some things can stay unseen. Some things can simply be yours.
And maybe hobbies are not completely gone. Maybe they are still there, in those small moments, waiting to be treated as something that does not need to prove its worth.
Not everything needs to become something.
Some things just need to be alive.
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