SOMETHING TO DO WITH YOUR HANDS

I don’t think it’s presumptuous to say, most everyone is having a pretty bad time right now. Unless you sell Punisher patches that velcro to plate carriers, or you’re some Prince of Hell whose power multiplies with fear and sadness? Your day-to-day mental state is likely in shambles. Understandably so, what with the extrajudicial murder, and the fascism, and the inexplicable threats to invade Greenland (Which, personally, I think come mostly from Trump desperately wanting a new territory to name after himself, with the side benefit of him permanently dodging those boring NATO meetings.) Things are going far from swimmingly.

However, I’m gonna flat-belly crawl my way away from that discourse at the moment. If you consider that to be me shirking the deep and important responsibilities of a 2026 newsletter writer, I'll make sure to post 25 Instagram stories as absolution. What I’d like to do instead is share something that’s helped me (along with Wellbutrin and an eight pound dog that frequently snorts) sort of center myself and feel some semblance of sanity.

I think plenty of people could benefit from, at the moment, making something. More importantly, making it for themselves. Preferably, in a physical space. Participating in an antiquated form of human self-affirmation known as “having a hobby.” What it is, that’s up to you. Draw. Paint. Make a mug out of clay, crochet a hat that accidentally ends up so small it could be used to adjust the development of a baby’s growth plates. Whittle a stick into a smaller, balder stick.

Most importantly of all, do not post it on the fucking internet. “Says the man sending out a newsletter,” you might think, deftly suplexing me with your mind. But I don’t categorize this newsletter as a hobby. It falls into the category of a “side hustle”, which is an unfortunate mutation a hobby can develop. Rent is too damn high, I fully understand, but there's a real mental danger in converting everything that soothes you into a small business.

I don’t know if it’s burnt out dopamine receptors, or fully metastasized capitalism, but there’s a fucked up mental process these days that nothing created is finished until it’s sold. Whether that’s for actual money or social currency. Which, unfortunately, means nothing’s ever really finished at all. 

Watching likes or sales come in is a spiky, sporadic validation drip, that by nature will never reach a recognizable point of completion. Pursuing “success” on social media, or in a growth-based economy? It’s like the old ladies carting oxygen tanks over to Atlantic City penny slots. If and when one hits the jackpot, it sure seems like they won, what with the flashing lights and all, until you realize you can come back and see them on the same stool tomorrow. 

What I’m trying to say is that, on every level, people need to rediscover the joy in simply completing something. To have put in work, and seen that work turn into a finished product. Quality be damned in every metric except knowing that you worked a small part of the world into a new form using your own sovereign will.

With that comes a feeling that’s in incredibly short supply at the moment, which is control. A large chunk of the negative feelings flooding most minds at the moment seem to hover around the sensation of helplessness. So, even on a small scale, you can’t undervalue a moment of confirmation that your will is, in fact, individually effective and not just one of a thousand sad little cilia flailing against a lung full of smoke. 

I can tell you honestly that I got more peace looking at a pyramid of bananas I’d stacked as a grocery store employee than I have from any work e-mail I’ve ever sent. That’s why I think something involving manipulating the physical world around you is a step yet above, if your hobby allows it. It’s about finishing a game of solitaire and getting to admire four neat stacks of cards without “Try again?” popping up and cutting off that feeling of accomplishment at the knees.

To prove I’m not hawking medicine I wouldn’t take, I’ll tell you what I’ve been doing. I’ve been playing guitar. Even some of my closest friends probably don’t know that, because there’s no need. No one outside of me or my dog has heard a single note of it, and they probably never will, because that’s not what I need it for. I don’t want to be in a band, and that’s best for everyone, because I’m not very good. I put on blues backing tracks and badly noodle over them. Real rock-bottom guitar shit. But I like when I pluck the strings and that song is different, because of me. 

I don’t even truly like to call it “bad”, because “bad” is a metric created by outside observation. All I know is I’m happy ripping out my little Schrodinger’s riffs, completely unobserved by the outside world, and therefore incapable of being assigned any value outside of my own experience. Without simply regurgitating “comparison is the thief of joy” with a somber nod, all I’ll say is that a lot of people could benefit from remembering that there’s value to impressing only yourself.

So, find something that quiets your brain, and make it a place you can spend time. Again, take talent off the table. If you’re wracking your brain, I’ll tell you one good place to start: your childhood. One thing I’ve discovered is that the things you enjoyed as a child? Almost assuredly are still enjoyed by your adult brain. 

People don’t usually “grow out” of interests as much as they grow ashamed of them. Which is no reason to take sources of joy, infuriatingly hard to find especially in the current world, away from yourself. Unless you were one of those kids burning ants with magnifying glasses, I suppose. That you can healthily leave in the past.

So set aside some time. Futz around with something. Doodle a horse on notebook paper with a ballpoint pen. Pull up a magic tutorial on YouTube and brush up on your French Drop. And I feel compelled to say, because some people seem to feel this way,  keeping yourself sane isn’t shirking your responsibility to care about the state of the world. The self-flagellation of turning yourself into a burned-out, trembling mess isn’t a service. I’d argue you might be better equipped to fight the good fight further away from a full mental breakdown. The horrors will still be there in half an hour, and you can engage with twice the fervor.

Anyways, I’m finished. Well, not really. Now it’s time to track opens and sign-ups and calculate whether any of this is worth doing based off of an analytics page.