Some people run marathons. Others collect stamps, bake sourdough, or knit sweaters for their cats. Me? I become a phone-repair technician, a spreadsheet whisperer, a bathroom renovator, and a pen-paper compatibility analyst—all within the same fiscal quarter. I am what I have now diagnosed as an Accidental Enthusiast. It’s not so much a personality type as it is a spiritual condition. One moment, I’m elbows-deep in a hobby I have no business pursuing, and the next, I’m sprinting away from it like it’s a toxic ex. The obsession comes suddenly. The passion is real. The burnout? Immediate. Let’s unpack this tragicomic cycle of my life. It’s educational. It’s mildly alarming. It’s oddly relatable. And it’s funny because if I don’t laugh at myself, I’ll have to explain to people why I own 46 different types of essential oils and no business plan.
This whole mess started harmlessly. One day, I decided—completely unprovoked—that I should fix my own electronics. Phones, laptops, random mystery cables that I swear belonged to something important. I even built a gaming PC once, fully convinced I was on the brink of launching a tech repair empire. I got halfway through another build, realized I was tired, bored, and dangerously close to electrocuting myself… and quietly ghosted the whole operation.
And then, just like that, I was deeply entrenched in a book series that had nothing to do with semiconductors and everything to do with magical teenagers saving the world.
This is my pattern: start with high-voltage enthusiasm, get overly deep way too fast, hit one snag, and bail. My hobbies are like spontaneous love affairs with no prenup. Intense, brief, and wildly irrational.
At one point, I decided Excel was my new best friend. Not just the friendly budget planner kind of Excel—we’re talking data validation, conditional formatting, dropdown menus, and nested formulas with the kind of energy that made me feel like a Wall Street analyst with a secret YouTube channel.
Did I need any of this? Not even remotely. Was I thriving? Absolutely. Until one formula didn’t work. That failure broke my heart in cell C13, and I never opened that file again.
From there, I dove into all the terms and conditions I’d previously signed without reading. Bank accounts, credit cards, devices—everything. It was enlightening and exhausting. I emerged from that rabbit hole older, wiser, and convinced that I might actually be owed a class-action settlement.
And just as I was coming up for air… I decided to test different pens on various types of paper. Yes, I can feel your eyebrows raising. No, I am not under surveillance. Yet.
I had a good run with soap and candle making. I genuinely loved it. For about a year and a half, my home smelled like a Pinterest board. It was tranquil, lovely, and just the right amount of chaotic alchemy. I gifted so many bath products I practically ran an unlicensed apothecary out of my kitchen.
But here’s the thing—there are only so many people you can give a eucalyptus-lavender candle to before they start blocking you during the holidays. And unlike my beloved LEGO sets, you can’t disassemble a soap bar and turn it into a spaceship. So, when my storage overflowed and my gift list dried up, the love died. It started as therapy and ended as a clutter problem.
Now, let me tell you about crochet. I’ve attempted it twice, which is two times too many. The first time, I bought 28 crochet pins, 16 balls of yarn, two instructional books, subscribed to some suspiciously chipper YouTubers, and came armed with unearned confidence.
That first attempt lasted four minutes—just long enough to realize this is a hobby designed to test your patience and your eyesight. I tapped out. Years later, I tried again. I got as far as trying to make a loop before quietly accepting that this is not my ministry. Crochet is for the patient, the gentle, the grandmothers with biceps of steel. I am none of these things. And I swear on all 28 of those crochet pins, I will never touch it again.
This one had real potential. I nearly started a self-care business—soaps, bath salts, candles. I had the domain. I had the logo. I had the Pinterest board. Then I remembered: I do not want to be an entrepreneur. I don’t want to spend Saturday morning researching FDA-compliant labelling for bath bombs. I want to use the bath bomb, not run a focus group about it.
So that died a soft, lavender-scented death.
My latest obsession? Renovating my bathroom. And this one, unfortunately, I can’t abandon. I need to use the bathroom. We are three months in. It is chaotic. There’s grout in my hair. But it’s coming together—mostly because failure isn’t optional when you’re dealing with plumbing and a bladder.
But it’s not all fleeting madness. Some of my little “episodes” do come back around. The Sims, for example. It’s my toxic ex that I keep crawling back to. I build a house, marry a vampire, forget to feed the baby, and quit—only to reinstall three months later like it’s a fresh idea.
And before you accuse me of having commitment issues, please note: I do follow through when there’s a tangible reward in sight. Give me a certificate at the end, and I’ll finish anything. Forklift license? Got it. Project Management certification? Done. If knowledge is the prize and a certificate is the proof, I will not only commit—I will thrive.
I still build LEGO sets like my life depends on it (sometimes I break them down just to rebuild again). I talk myself through chores like I’m hosting a cleaning podcast. I make PowerPoint presentations to strengthen my arguments. I record voiceovers for my daily tasks. I change my own tires seasonally like it’s a sacred rite of passage. I design my own planners. I invent elaborate backstories for strangers. I’ve named every inanimate object in my house and I remember their names. Harold the kettle says hi.
They say living alone will make you crazy. I say—no, it just gives you space to meet your true self. And sometimes your true self is a little eccentric, a little brilliant, and has six open browser tabs on how to retile a shower and start a mushroom farm.
I’m not flaky. I’m passionate… in short, unsustainable bursts. I am not uncommitted. I just believe in trial, error, and moving on before the trauma sets in. And somewhere in the chaos, I’ve accidentally become the most interesting person at the dinner table—provided someone else is hosting because I just took apart my dining chairs to upholster them and got distracted halfway through.
So here’s to all the other Accidental Enthusiasts out there: May your curiosity remain unmedicated, your hobbies remain temporary, and your stories remain hilarious.
Because honestly, what’s life without a little chaos, a little learning, and a lot of abandoned crafts in a drawer somewhere?
Written by a woman who once tried to crochet a headband and ended up questioning her life choices.