I used to have hobbies. I used to be a guy who did things. Who made things. I built a bookshelf once. I brewed beer in my garage. I had a guitar that I actually played, not just leaned against the wall like a decorative reminder of who I used to be.
Then I had kids. Three of them. And somewhere between the midnight bottles and the toddler meltdown about the wrong color cup, I realized my hobbies had evaporated. My running shoes had actual cobwebs. My guitar was so out of tune it joined a different key.
Here's the thing nobody tells you: parenting doesn't just eat your time. It eats the quality of your time. The two-hour blocks of focus become 47-second intervals between someone needing a snack and someone else needing a butt wipe. It's maddening.
But here's the other thing: you need hobbies. Not want. Need. Without something that's just for you, you become a hollow shell who only talks about diaper brands and nap schedules. Your wife didn't marry a guy who discusses diaper brands. She married the guy who brewed beer. Or played guitar. Or at least had opinions about things other than which sippy cup doesn't leak.
So here's how I clawed my way back. Three kids in, I've figured out a system. It's not glamorous. It's not what I had at 25. But it works.
You know what's better than zero minutes of hobby time? Twelve minutes of hobby time. That's it. That's the bar. Lower it until it's on the ground, then limbo under it.
I used to think hobbies required at least an hour. That's the pre-kid brain talking. A hobby doesn't need an hour. It needs consistency. Twelve minutes a day, every day, compounds into almost an hour and a half per week. That's enough to finish a book in a month. Learn three new chords. Run a couple of miles. Write 500 words. Actually get somewhere.
The trick is giving yourself permission to do only twelve minutes and then stop. You don't have to finish the chapter. You don't have to complete the workout. You just show up. Twelve minutes of showing up beats zero minutes of waiting for the perfect window. And the perfect window? It doesn't exist anymore. Let it go.
Not all hobbies are created equal when you have small kids. Some hobbies actively hate parents.
Hobbies that work with kids:
Hobbies that are basically impossible with small kids:
Your hobby should check at least 3 of these boxes:
This is the hard one. You need your partner's buy-in, and that means your partner also gets hobby time. Equal and actual hobby time — not "I'll watch the kids while you take a shower" time. Real time.
Here's the trade that worked in my house: "I'll take Saturday mornings, you take Sunday mornings." Every Saturday from 7:00 to 9:00am, I'm off duty. I can go for a run, read, sit in a coffee shop staring at a wall — doesn't matter. It's my time. Sunday mornings? That's her time. I handle the kids. I don't text her asking where the wipes are. I don't "just quickly" ask about dinner plans. She's off the clock.
Two hours a week is not a lot. But it's sacred. And when you both have it, neither of you resents the other. The resentment is what kills hobbies, not the lack of time.
Let me be real with you for a second. You know what's probably eating more of your potential hobby time than your kids? Your phone. Scrolling Instagram at 10pm when the kids are finally asleep — that's not a hobby. That's a doom scroll. That's 45 minutes you could've spent reading a book, writing, stretching, learning something. But you didn't. You watched reels of strangers renovating houses you'll never visit.
I'm not judging. I've done it. I still do it sometimes. But if you're going to claim you don't have time for hobbies, first check your screen time report. Be honest. That number is probably the actual problem.
Here's the thing I wish someone had told me: this phase is temporary. Your kids will not be this small forever. The newborn who needs you every 90 minutes becomes a toddler who can play independently for 20 minutes. That toddler becomes a kid who has their own homework and doesn't want you hovering. The time comes back. Slowly, in pieces, but it comes back.
Your job right now is not to maintain the same hobby life you had before kids. Your job is to keep the pilot light on. Don't let the hobby die entirely. Show up for it in the cracks. Twelve minutes here, twenty minutes there. Keep the muscle memory alive so that when the time expands — and it will — you're not starting from zero.
I haven't brewed beer in five years. But my kettle and carboy are in the garage, waiting. My guitar is back in tune. I play "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" for my youngest and he thinks I'm a rock star. It's not the same as the old days. It's not supposed to be. It's better, because I'm sharing it with them. Even if only for twelve minutes at a time.