The Death of the Amateur: Why We Feel The Need to Monetize Every Moment of Joy

There was a time, not so long ago, when it was perfectly acceptable to be bad at something. You could paint mediocre watercolors of your cat, knit scarves that were slightly too tight, or grow tomatoes that never quite turned red, and the only result was personal satisfaction. These were “hobbies”—activities undertaken solely for the pleasure of doing them, with zero expectation of profit or public acclaim. But somewhere in the last decade, the concept of the hobby has been quietly strangled by a new, pervasive cultural pressure: the urge to monetize.

Today, if you mention you enjoy baking, a well-meaning friend will almost immediately ask, “Have you thought about selling those at the farmer’s market?” If you enjoy video games, the algorithm suggests you should be streaming on Twitch. If you write in a journal, you are told you should start a Substack. We have collectively internalized the capitalist idea that time spent without generating revenue is time wasted. The innocent question “What do you do for fun?” has been replaced by the calculating “What is your side hustle?”

This shift has created a peculiar kind of performance anxiety around leisure. We no longer just do things; we document them. The act of creating is now inextricably linked to the act of sharing. We knit the sweater not just to keep warm, but to post a time-lapse reel of the process on TikTok. This transforms the relaxing, private sanctuary of a hobby into a public performance. We begin to make creative choices based on what will get engagement rather than what brings us joy. We stop painting what we feel and start painting what the algorithm favors.

The tragedy of this mindset is that it kills the “amateur.” The root of the word amateur is amare—to love. An amateur is someone who does something for the love of it, regardless of skill level. But the monetization mindset demands professional polish. We are afraid to try new things because we cannot instantly perform them at a professional level. We fear looking “cringe” or unskilled, so we stick to what we are already good at, or we simply consume content instead of creating it. We have lost the freedom to suck at things.

Of course, we cannot ignore the economic reality driving this. For many, the “side hustle” isn’t a vanity project; it is a survival mechanism. In an economy where wages have stagnated and the cost of living has skyrocketed, the idea of having “unproductive” time feels like a luxury many cannot afford. When rent eats half your paycheck, the idea of turning your woodworking hobby into an Etsy shop feels like a responsible, necessary decision. We monetize our joy because we feel we have to justify our existence with output.

However, the cost of this constant productivity is burnout. When your sanctuary becomes your storefront, you have nowhere left to retreat. If your relaxation method becomes a source of stress—worrying about shipping deadlines, customer reviews, or subscriber counts—it ceases to be relaxation. The brain needs “idle time” to process, recover, and dream. By filling every spare hour with “hustle,” we are depriving ourselves of the mental rest required to be truly human.

Reclaiming the hobby requires a conscious act of rebellion. It means finding something you enjoy and deliberately keeping it useless. It means drawing a picture and then—here is the radical part—not showing it to anyone. It means going for a run without tracking your pace on Strava. It means writing a poem that will never be published.

We need to give ourselves permission to be mediocre again. There is a distinct, profound joy in being a beginner, in making a mess, and in creating something that serves no purpose other than the fact that you enjoyed making it. In a world that demands you sell everything you have, keeping your joy for yourself is the ultimate luxury.