Why Hobbies Aren't the Holy Grail of Friendship

When the pandemic lockdowns finally lifted, I woke up to a life that had quietly shrunk. I’d transitioned to a remote job, and my friends were scattered across different cities. As I tried to rebuild a social life, the advice was always the same: get a hobby. “Go meet people doing something you love,” they said.

But I already had hobbies—painting, running, and reading. Because I did them alone, the suggestion was to either make these activities social or take up new ones entirely. That advice confused me. My closest friendships hadn’t grown from shared interests—they’d formed from proximity and connection: the women from school and work I laughed hardest with and leaned on most. If hobbies hadn’t forged those bonds, why should they form my next ones?

And yet, everyone else seemed to be following the prescription. People flocked to hobbies with near-religious fervor—a trend sparked by the pandemic hobby boom. From our homes, we baked sourdough, took Masterclasses, taught ourselves guitar. We convinced ourselves we were self-actualizing as we filled the void. And since the world reopened, with work no longer holding the same promise of fulfillment[1], we’ve pinned our hopes on hobbies instead.

Today, a hobby isn’t just something you do—it’s who you are. We’re TikTokers, Dungeon Masters, SoulCyclers, CrossFitters clad in matching workout sets with color-coordinated water bottles. We purchase lessons, gear, memberships—and with them, identities. Hobbies have become badges of personal brands to broadcast and curate.

As I searched for a hobby that felt like “me”—or the person I hoped to become—I realized my parents never approached leisure this way. They had pastimes: a round of golf here, a card game there, but they weren’t “golfers” or “poker players”. These activities carried no status, no content for social media. Today, however, hobbies have become social currency—signaling far more than simple enjoyment.

Comedian Robby Hoffman puts it bluntly: we’ve come to believe that having a hobby equates to having a personality. On dating apps, we scan for hobbies as proof that someone is well-adjusted and “has their own life[2].” We ask “what do you like to do for fun?” expecting answers that gesture toward aspiration, not mere recreation.

Theodor Adorno took aim at this very issue. He warned that the “hobby ideology” was capitalism invading our leisure—demanding our free time serve some productive purpose. Only the hobbies with a greater function—self-improvement, personal branding, a potential side hustle—are considered valid.

“Woe betide you,” Adorno wrote, “if you have no hobby, no pastime; then you are a swot or an old- timer, an eccentric, and you will fall prey to ridicule in a society which foists upon you what your free time should be.”

It’s this unspoken scorn I find impossible to escape—the idea that without some visible hobby for the world to see, I’m unfinished, unappealing, and at fault for my own loneliness. The pressure to “take something up” rocks me time and again, orbiting like a short-run Saturn return. After all, as many have reminded me, no one is showing up to my living room.

So I’ve tried getting out there. To date, I’ve tried kickball, barre, writing workshops, kickboxing, full moon bike rides, group meditation, rock-climbing, cabochons jewelry-making, park clean-ups, community gardening, volunteer fabric-sorting—and I’m one meltdown away from joining a tennis clinic.

But at the end of all these classes, friendships rarely form. I routinely leave with my tail between my legs wondering if I was too shy—or if everyone could see right through my feigned interest.

When I thought about how my parents made friends, I realized: they mostly didn’t have to. They carried over friendships from childhood or college, befriended other parents from my school, or colleagues from work. Their social lives emerged from shared places and daily rhythms—not curated passions.

However, our lives look very different. We’ve resigned ourselves to remote work, delayed parenthood, and even relocate to new cities to “start over” later in life—all of which add up to living in a prolonged, open call for friendship. And we’re told that as long you “pursue your passions,” a cornucopia of “your people” will be waiting for you. Hobbies are framed as the ultimate gateway.

But this all rests on the assumption that shared interests are the highest form of compatibility. In a world ruled by algorithms—where targeting and optimizing reign supreme—we’ve absorbed the belief that even connection can be calculated. Yet hobbies rarely create the conditions that meaningful friendship requires. At our core, we are social creatures who bond over a shared cast of characters: mutual friends, coworkers, even common enemies. Friendships help us navigate these relationships with greater ease and honesty—especially when they’re woven into the social fabric of our daily lives. They form through generous listening, emotional support, practical help, laughter, and mutual growth—things a Pilates studio is ill-equipped to offer. What truly builds connection isn’t shared interests, but shared humanity.

Instead of registering for the latest class, maybe we should return to the spaces we once relied on: work, friends of friends, and social circles that center on people—not pastimes. What’s needed now is a breaking down of silos, a softening of the life-sector boundaries we established during the pandemic.

When it comes to socializing, I just want to hang out—a statement that feels oddly countercultural today. Like Adorno, I want my free time to be genuinely free—free from structure, schedule, and fees. I don’t want an activity as a buffered proxy for connection; I don’t want my solitary joys turned into crowded rituals.[3]

If you love your hobbies and have made great friends through them–hallelujah! Now please throw a party so your friend who’s busy reading can get out there, and come hang out. No equipment required.

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[1] As The Guardian reported in 2022, the “quiet quitting” trend went global as workers reevaluated what they owed their employers. More recently, Joanna Partridge describes “resenteeism”—staying in a job you hate simply because you can’t or don’t want to quit.

[2] In the (hetero) dating world, hobbies carry different implications: women often see them as signs of agency and productivity (i.e., not just gaming all day), while men tend to value women with hobbies out of a fear that, without them, they’ll become her sole source of entertainment.

[3] Adorno declared he had no hobbies. “Making music, listening to music, reading with all my attention, these activities are part and parcel of my life,” he wrote. “To call them hobbies would make a mockery of them.” For some reason, they weren’t considered enough – to be valued in society, or to meet people.