I don’t think people say they like running anymore.
They’re training for a marathon.
They’re in a run club.
They wake up at 5:30 every Saturday, know their splits, own three hydration vests, and somehow convince everyone else to sign up for a race too.
Meanwhile, I recently caught myself thinking, I’d kind of like to start running.
Not because I have a goal.
Not because I want to become “a runner.”
Just because I think it would be nice to go on a run every once in a while.
For a second, that felt like an incomplete thought.
Almost like there had to be a bigger commitment attached to it.
If I wasn’t willing to make running part of my identity, did I actually like it?
That question sounds ridiculous when you say it out loud.
I’m not sure it’s ridiculous anymore.
It feels like we’ve quietly stopped having hobbies and started collecting identities.
You don’t enjoy movies.
You’re a cinephile with a meticulously curated Letterboxd account.
You don’t cook.
You ferment things.
Somewhere between algorithms and aesthetics, our interests stopped being things we enjoyed and became ways we introduced ourselves.
Maybe that’s why adults seem so hesitant to try new things.
Trying something new used to mean asking, Do I think I’d enjoy this?
Now it feels more like asking, Do I want this to become part of who I am?
Those are very different questions.
I don’t think kids think this way.
When I was younger, I liked art.
That meant drawing sometimes.
Painting occasionally.
Making a craft because someone else wanted to.
No one expected me to choose one medium, buy all the supplies, and build an identity around it.
The same was true with sports.
You could like basketball because you watched it with your family.
Or because you played in PE.
Or because you liked going to games.
Nobody asked you to prove your commitment.
Now it feels like every interest comes with an unspoken expectation that you’ll fully commit or not bother at all.
I don’t know exactly when this changed.
Maybe it happened when social media rewarded niche identities.
It’s easier to understand someone who’s “the travel girl” than someone who occasionally likes traveling.
“The runner” makes more sense than “someone who enjoys running when the weather is nice.”
The internet loves categories.
Real people rarely fit into them.
I’ve noticed this in myself more than anyone else.
There are so many things I’ve wanted to try that I’ve quietly talked myself out of.
Not because I thought I’d dislike them.
Because I didn’t know if I wanted to become the kind of person associated with them.
That’s such a strange way to make decisions.
Since when did trying something require a commitment to becoming someone?
The funny thing is, I don’t actually think my identity comes from my hobbies.
If someone asked me to describe myself, I wouldn’t start with solo travel or museums or writing or card games.
I’d probably say I like learning.
I like community.
I like curiosity.
Those themes show up everywhere.
Sometimes they look like traveling by myself.
Sometimes they look like learning Spades.
Sometimes they might look like running exactly two miles before deciding I’ve had enough.
The activity changes.
The themes don’t.
Maybe that’s what I’ve been pushing back against.
I don’t want every hobby to become a personality.
I want the freedom to enjoy things casually.
To read one book because it sounded interesting.
To paint badly.
To run slowly.
To visit a museum without suddenly becoming “an art person.”
To have interests that ebb and flow depending on the season I’m in.
I wonder if we’ve accidentally convinced ourselves that casual enjoyment doesn’t count.
That if we aren’t optimizing, documenting, improving, or building community around an activity, we aren’t really participating in it.
I don’t think that’s true.
In fact, I think we lose something when we only give ourselves permission to love things.
We lose the joy of simply liking them.
And maybe that’s why adulthood can start to feel so strangely narrow.
Not because there are fewer things to do.
Because we’ve quietly decided we’re only allowed to do the things that fit the version of ourselves we’ve already created.
Maybe the next hobby I pick up won’t become part of my personality.
Maybe it will just become part of a really nice Tuesday.
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