Half-baked hobbies: A millennial curse

I entered the vast, warmly lit music shop hand-in-hand with mum; dad trailing behind, hands clasped behind his back. My inner fervour was deeply masked with anxiety. The company was intimidating: full-grown adults on leather wheelie stools testing out expensive-looking guitars, staff in their chinos and black t-shirts sweeping by to deliver customers a lighter pick, a thicker drumstick, a more flexible bow.

I had no idea about all this at the time. My mind was fixed on finding the coolest, most show off-able instrument to accompany my hipster new hobby, and I beelined towards my objective: the violins.

“I want that one,” I said to my mother, her promptly relaying to the salesperson before us.

It was a slightly iridescent, cobalt blue violin displayed – of course – in the window. All the rest were brown. It had to be this one.

“That one we’ve only got in full size,” said the salesperson, “Maybe come back for it when you’ve grown a little.” Their apologetic smile did little for my disappointment.

I settled for a standard caramel-brown… and never went back for the blue violin. I ended up feeling uncomfortable during lessons, alone with my teacher in the small, sound-proofed lesson room. I was unmotivated to practice, to learn to read sheet music, to develop my sense of rhythm. My initial motivator of coolness quickly melted into mundanity.

After a few semesters, I told my parents, “Don’t worry about renewing my enrolment.”

“You don’t wanna do it anymore?” mum asked.

“Mmm,” was all it took.

Some time later, I approached her with renewed fervour:

“Mum! Can I try horse riding?”

We repeated the scene in the equestrian shop. All boot-ed, jodhpur-ed, and helmet-ed up, I spent some months developing a talent and love for the sport… then started skipping lessons in favour of homework. Opting for naps after an arduous academic week (perhaps scheduling riding lessons on Friday nights wasn’t the best move). My riding school moved a few suburbs over – a bit of a trek for weekly lessons.

“It’s okay, I don’t need to do it,” I told mum.

“Alright. Better you focus on school anyway.” She agreed, all too easily.

So I did – throughout primary school, high school and beyond. Naturally, I did well. More naturally still, hobbies visited fleetingly. The whole family came and watched me star in musicals, tolerated me practising ear-splitting soprano harmonies throughout the house. But academia was always what I was most praised for, especially as one of a handful of token Asians in my outer-suburban high school.

Now, as an adult, when I introduce someone to my myriad childhood hobbies, I expect stock-standard replies: “Wow, that’s cool! Do you still do it?” N-No…

“What kind of level did you reach?” Well, I was still pretty novice by the time I stopped…

This year, when assigned a quick Creative Writing challenge at university, I was similarly stuck for a response. It said:

‘Write about one thing you are expert in.’

My heart skipped a beat.

I can’t do this, I felt.

I rarely shy from a challenge, but as my heart rate quickened, palms began to sweat, hands started wringing, I questioned whether it was even worth an attempt. It was a 10-minute pomodoro, and I was at risk of timing out with nothing – because I couldn’t for the life of me think of something that I consider myself ‘expert’ in.

I thought of how, at age 27, I have started – and abandoned – nine different career paths spanning from science to arts. I’m currently pursuing two at once (you bet one is creative writing), neither of which I’m sure are ‘endgame’.

I worry about not having one – an endgame. From my privileged position (thank you mum and dad), there are several available for the taking. It’s kind of like when I was a kid, with parents ready and willing to provide whatever I asked for. But then and now, one question remains – how am I supposed to know what to ask for?

It’s a millennial curse: being granted all access to a wealth of open pathways that our boomer parents simply had no experience navigating.

My parents were particularly unhelpful on this front. As refugees from Laos on the back of the Vietnam War, they were innocently ignorant of the importance of developing interests, skills and hobbies outside of academic performance. Such things had never gotten them anywhere ‘important’ – never helped them make a living. Heck, even if they had known, they’d have been too preoccupied learning a whole new language, culture and society to impart the knowledge onto me.

So, like many fellow millennial Asian diasporic children, I was somewhat self-raised, and something of a half-baked hobby collector. Like many fellow millennial adults, I am unsure of my destination, continuing to collect careers like hobbies – putting fulfilment first.

At 27, that sense of fulfilment has me toying with the idea of forgetting the elusive career endgame. No matter what the attempt was in my past, I’ve given it a right go – and that experience counts for something. In fact, it counts for all that I am.