I am not an expert at anything.

I mean, I do a few things decently. In a former life I was a good lawyer, but let’s be honest: I was never in danger of being appointed to the Supreme Court. I’m an adequate photographer, but certainly not a great one. I can make a proper meal, but I’m no chef. I even Hula-Hoop, but I can’t do one single trick.

While washing up the dishes after dinner one evening, I made this observation to my partner, Marcus. “That is patently untrue,” he responded, as he leaned against the pantry door. “You’re good at a lot of things.”

“Am I?” I countered. I shut off the faucet and turned to look at him. “Name one area I’m an expert in.”

I waited.

He stared back, silent.

Finally, he spoke. “Well,” he said, “does it matter?” Now it was my turn to be silent. Did it matter? Isn’t this what we’re all supposed to do: make our marks on the world in distinguished ways? Shouldn’t I, at my big age, have mastered something noteworthy by now?

Yet Marcus’s question stopped me short. While I might not be winning a Nobel Prize anytime soon, my life’s not nothing. In fact, there’s no denying that I’m otherwise content. I’m educated, I’ve consistently worked, I’ve traveled. I enjoy being married to a lovely, decent man, and together we’ve raised a funny, charming, smart young woman. Life has been, dare I say, good.

But very little of my good life has anything to do with expertise or mastery. The joy I’ve had in almost everything I’ve ever done—from my professional life to parenting—has arisen mostly in the attempt.

I’m happy, I thought, but I might be a total amateur. And isn’t being an amateur just plain wrong?

Weeks after that kitchen conversation, I was still ruminating on the true meaning of being an amateur. On one hand, the word amateur is often used as a stand-in for “incompetent,” or “unskillful,” or even “shoddy.” Think about it: Would you ever consider buying a car that featured “amateur workmanship”? Or how would you feel if you made a mistake at work and your boss described it as an “amateur move”? Being associated with the word “amateur” is the last thing any of us want. And yet, the expectation of being an expert in everything we do is exhausting. Besides, my life hadn’t seemed to suffer for my amateurism. I even suspected that it was because I’m an amateur that I was content. So why was I so conflicted?

The attorney in me can’t help but get to the bottom of a paradox, so I looked up the word amateur to see if it has always been used as a pejorative. To my surprise, it hasn’t. According to the Oxford English Dictionary, the word amateur is derived from the Latin amare, meaning “to love,” and amator, meaning “lover.” The French furthered the word’s evolution into amateur, which, at the time, meant “a lover of art and, by implication, often a collector.” By the eighteenth century, the word’s English connotation had transformed again, now referencing “someone who practiced art for pleasure and interest, but not for money.” By all accounts, it appeared that, historically speaking, the amateur was all about love, appreciation, and passion.

I’m liking this, I thought.

But then I kept reading.

Things went south around the turn of the nineteenth century, when use of the term amateur became less kind. According to Merriam-Webster, by 1790, the word was already being used in the somewhat condescending extended sense: British House of Commons member George Rous snidely described his colleague, Edmund Burke, as “a bystander, a mere amateur of aristocracy” in his Thoughts on Government. Several not-so-nice synonyms have since popped up: dilettante, for example, and neophyte. These terms imply that embarking on any task of avocation isn’t worth it unless we’re doing so with the intent of mastery. Nowadays, the only positive meanings of “amateur” are either used in sports (to distinguish one athlete from another who chooses to go “pro”) or as a strategy toward mastery (an “amateur mindset” as a step toward becoming more proficient, more successful, more perfect).

Despite everything I was reading, I couldn’t find any calls to reclaim the word in its original fullness: the amateur as one who finds pleasure in an activity, who collects art or beauty, or who practices something because they’re interested in it, rather than to make money. As far as I could tell, no one was making the case for using the word to mean a person who loves pursuing an avocation, simply because they love pursuing the avocation. And nowhere was it suggested that seeking to be an amateur as an end goal, in and of itself, is a worthy pursuit.

Honestly, I blame “hustle culture”: the societal expectation to be productive at all costs. From social media to self-help books, the advice is ubiquitous: The acquisition of money, power, and mastery is the only way to live a successful life. Unsurprisingly, this has deleterious effects. Rainesford Stauffer, a young journalist and the author of the book An Ordinary Age: Finding Your Way in a World That Expects Exceptional, laments that “striving to be extraordinary, being exceptional, and being special are the same as being capable, being fulfilled, and being happy.” This pressure makes it almost impossible to do things simply for enjoyment’s sake. “Sometimes, the deeper we get into adulthood, the more ‘free time’ pursuits get crossed off the list,” she writes. “There’s a cost to having hobbies, and if an activity happens to be free, it demands some freedom of time that a lot of young adults simply don’t have.” This sentiment is echoed by others: A friend of mine described a conversation she had about this very topic with a coworker. “As a young Black woman, I feel a lot of pressure to excel in my career—to honor my family, as well as my culture,” her colleague reflected. “And I think sometimes I’m so focused on doing that, I’ve forgotten how to be interesting.”

I have to say, this broke my heart a little.

But the echo kept repeating: Another friend, who is undeniably accomplished in her work, admits that she has a habit of always moving on to the next thing without taking any downtime, even to appreciate what she’s already accomplished. An acquaintance told me that when she does find time to do something creative outside of her job, societal pressures impel her to turn it into a “side hustle”—thus, in effect, landing her with two jobs she’s required to excel at. Still another laments, “It kills me, because I never feel like I’m doing enough, and I’m exhausted. I can’t keep the pace of other creators or makers or even teachers.” Almost every time I asked people how hustle culture affects their lives, they repeated “I’m exhausted,” or “I’m never enough.” The societal pressure is real, and it is crushing.

As if that’s not enough, all this hustling can lead to perfectionism, which is a whole other concentric circle of hell. My friend Brené Brown, a pioneering researcher on shame, courage, and vulnerability, is emphatic when she distinguishes perfectionism from healthy striving: “Perfectionism is the belief that if we live perfect, look perfect, and act perfect, we can minimize or avoid the pain of blame, judgment, and shame,” she writes. Dr. Tracy Dennis-Tiwary, a psychology and neuroscience professor, goes even further: “The relentless pursuit of flawlessness can lead to low self-worth, depressive and anxiety disorders, high stress in the face of failure, and even suicidality.” It seems that perfectionism is not the asset we might believe it to be; on the contrary, it may be the thing that keeps us from living our best lives. Dr. Brown puts it simply: “Perfection is a twenty-ton shield that we lug around thinking it will protect us when, in fact, it’s the thing that’s really preventing us from taking flight.”

Amen, sister. And if we’re constantly worried about how others might perceive us or our interests, then how can we possibly live with our whole selves?

I was quickly discovering that all signs seem to point to a simple truth: Being an amateur might just be good for our brains. As proof, consider a study, published in 2023, in which researchers found that people who pursued hobbies reported better health, more happiness, fewer symptoms of depression, and higher life satisfaction than those who didn’t. It appears that by rejecting perfectionism and hustle culture, and instead embracing a practice purely for enjoyment’s sake, it’s possible to live happier and healthier lives. Intentional amateurism, in other words, could just be the secret sauce to a merry soul.

My friend Jenn Romolini is a testament to this: An award-winning author, editor, and media consultant, she’s also the cohost of the popular podcast, Everything Is Fine. I met Jenn while promoting my book Radiant Rebellion: Reclaim Aging, Practice Joy, and Raise a Little Hell and was lucky enough to be interviewed by her. After recording stopped, she and I kept chatting, and our conversation turned to amateurism. She mentioned that she had taken up weaving wall hangings. And, according to her, she’s really bad at it.

“No, seriously, I’m awful,” she grinned. “Like, my weavings are ugly. My goal is to make them beautiful, but right now they’re truly not great. I haven’t figured out what colors look good together. There are so many techniques that I don’t know how to do. I have furry parts where there shouldn’t be furry parts.”

“And yet you love doing it,” I said.

“I love doing it,” she agreed, her eyes sparkling. The misplaced furry parts didn’t seem to dim her delight one iota.

For the record, I totally related to her joy: In my own amateur photography practice, the fact that my efforts occasionally result in an underexposed or blurry image never discourages me—sometimes it even delights me. When, years ago, I decided to take up knitting, I was surprised at how soothing the process became. I was elated when I finally made a sweater my toddler daughter could actually wear—never mind that one arm was longer than the other. (The sweater had different arm lengths, not my daughter. Her arms are the same length.) Even my Hula-Hoop practice—arguably the most amateur of my pursuits—can result in total rapture, especially if it’s beautiful outside, and even more especially if I’m hooping to a new Beyoncé album. And all this joy arises by mere happenstance. Imagine what could happen if I put a bit of deliberation behind my amateurism!

Frankly, being a total amateur—and an intentional one—was beginning to sound like a magical way to live.

This is an excerpt from In Defense of Dabbling chapter 1: A Case for Intentional Amateurism.