The hobby graveyard in my garage

Welcome to my garage. Mind the pottery wheel (six pots, all wonky). Behind it, a guitar with three chords' worth of history.

• A drone, flown four times, one crash, retired with honors.
• A sourdough starter that died so I could learn I hate feeding things on a schedule.
• Roller skates. Do not ask about the roller skates.

Each one arrived with a ceremony: the research spiral, the unboxing, the first euphoric weekend. Each one left the same way — quietly, no note.

Every item also arrived with a persona: Potter Me, Guitarist Me, Drone Pilot Me. Personas have a shelf life of about three weekends.

For years, walking past this corner felt like walking past a jury. Every item whispered the same charge: you never finish anything.

The guilt was more expensive than the gear. I was paying rent on a narrative, and the narrative was that every abandoned interest was a character flaw with a price tag.

Finishing, it turns out, was never the point of a hobby for me. The point was finding out — and finding out is quick.

Then a friend looked at the pile and said, “You've tried more things than anyone I know.” A reframe I had never given myself permission to make.

Every grave is a completed experiment. Pottery: not for me, learned in six weeks instead of wondered about for years.

Sourdough: beautiful bread, terrible boss. Sampling is not failing — sampling is how this brain finds what sticks.

The graves were also fertiliser. The drone taught me the camera, the camera got me outside, outside got me walking — and walking is the one habit that never died.

I still fall in love with a new hobby roughly monthly. I just court them differently.

• Borrow or rent before buying. The library of things is my dealer now.
• Buy used, from someone else's graveyard, at guilt-free prices.
• Decide the exit in advance: if it dies in a month, it gets donated, not stored as evidence.

The garage is smaller now. The curiosity is not.