The Art of Starting Over: ADHD, Hobbies, and Finding Myself Again and Again

Reframing hobby-jumping not as failure, but as a cycle of curiosity, nervous system healing, and self-discovery.

Wendi Kehn/Hellbloom Haven (Also featured on Substack & Medium)

Jan 02, 2026

Section 1: The Cycle of Starting (and Stopping)

Who in the imaginary crowd has spent buttloads of money on a new hobby or interest only to give it up once you’ve bought every possible supply?

Yeah. Me too.

You get the idea, you dive headfirst, hyper-fixate, fill your cart, stalk YouTube tutorials like you’re preparing for a final exam, and then three weeks later… you’re done. Over it and moved on.

If you have any form of neurodivergence or ADHD, it very likely did not stick at all. Or maybe you did master it, and then decided, nope, not for me anymore. On to the next.

It’s not that you didn’t care or that you didn’t try. You did. Probably intensely and obsessively. You probably tried so hard that you practically turned your entire personality into it, until one day, it just didn’t fit anymore.

But if you’re like me, the part that really stings isn’t just the quitting.
It’s the shame.

The shame of spending money you didn’t really have, again.
The shame of remembering all the times someone made you feel ridiculous or irresponsible for it.
The quiet embarrassment of feeling like you can’t “stick with something,” or make a routine, or structure your time the way other people seem to.

I hyperfocus, and then I hit it and quit it.
And for a long time, I carried that like a flaw and failure.

But that’s where this story shifts.

What if this isn’t about failure at all?
What if it’s about needs, and how each hobby met a need at exactly the right time?

And beyond that… what if it was something more?

What if we were being quietly, divinely nudged toward each of these passions, not just for distraction, but for healing? What if the impulse to pick up a paintbrush, or bake bread, or plant something, or wrap wire around a crystal, was actually an answer to a prayer we didn’t even realize we were whispering?

What if these phases weren’t flighty detours, but sacred assignments?

Maybe we didn’t fail to commit.
Maybe we followed through on exactly what our spirit needed at that moment.
Maybe these weren’t hobbies we “gave up on”, but teachers that had already given us what we came to learn.

Section 2: Listening Differently

I get it, to some, the idea that ADHD, hyperfocus, or hobby-jumping could be spiritual might sound a little ridiculous. Like, really? Blowing your budget on candle-making supplies at 2 a.m. because your brain won’t stop until you’ve mastered the perfect wax ratio… is spiritual?

Maybe. Maybe not. Moderation right? haha

Jokes aside, I’m not here to tell you what to believe. I’m not saying it is a divine message. But I am inviting you to consider the possibility that the universe, or your own intuition, soul, higher self, whatever language fits, might be speaking to you in more ways than you realize every day. There is much we don’t see and understand about our world even now.

Perhaps it’s not about being broken or flaky; maybe it’s about being guided.

The sudden urge to build something, to paint, move your body in a new way, or get your hands in the dirt might not be random. It could be your nervous system signaling a need for regulation. It might be your inner child remembering the joy of play. Maybe it’s a gentle nudge from the universe saying, “Here. Try this. See how it softens you. Discover what it opens up.”

And maybe not.
If you believe differently, I respect that fully. This isn’t about convincing anyone. It’s just about offering another lens. One that feels a little kinder and more curious. A perspective that makes space for meaning, even in things the world says are “a waste of time.”

Because I don’t think it’s ever a waste if it brought you joy, peace, relief, even if only temporarily and especially with how hard life is.
Even if you never stuck with it and sold all the supplies a month later or never even opened half of them.

You showed up. You tried. You followed the spark and honestly showing up is half the battle of anything.

And maybe that’s enough.

---

Section 3: Every Hobby Was a Lesson in Disguise

When I look back at all the hobbies I’ve cycled through, it would be easy to just see clutter, abandoned supplies, or another “thing I didn’t stick with.” But if I zoom out and I really sit with it, I see something else entirely.

Each one of those interests arrived when I needed something. And even if I didn’t realize it at the time, every single one taught me something real and useful, most importantly, skills and knowledge that can never be taken from me.

• Candle making taught me so much more than I expected: the science of waxes, the difference a wick makes, and how to make emergency candles or heat lamps. It wasn’t just crafting; it was learning how to create light and warmth in the dark, in more ways than one.
• Painting showed me the beauty of patience and play. It gave me permission to make a mess, to try without needing to be great, to follow color instead of rules. I practiced. I got better. I started trusting myself, and eventually, I hung my work on my walls. I gifted it. I sold pieces at a flea market. For someone who once believed they weren’t “artistic,” that was healing in itself.
• Tarot taught me to look beyond the surface. To notice symbols, patterns, themes, and to trust my intuition. It became more than a deck of cards; it became a mirror I didn’t know I needed.
• Soap making grounded me in thriftiness and resourcefulness. I learned how to stretch my money, how to care for my skin, and how to turn basic ingredients into something nurturing.
• Kinetic mobiles reminded me of balance, of how different parts can move independently and still work together to create harmony. They were delicate but intentional. Just like life.
• Flow arts connected me to my body in ways I hadn’t felt in years. They made me feel free, playful, radiant. I wasn’t performing, I was being. Moving with the music, in the dark, lit up by lights and joy and breath.
• Festivals expanded my world, my mind, the people I met, the conversations, the community. They reminded me that connection is healing, that we find pieces of ourselves in others. It showed me that we all carry insecurities and being confident gives others the confidence and courage to blossom themselves.
• Cooking taught me flexibility and confidence. I learned how to make something out of whatever I had, how to cook with feeling, not just recipes. I fed myself, my family, my friends. That matters.
• Wire wrapping taught me about crystals, about different metals, about patience and persistence. To be honest? I honestly wasn’t very good at it haha, and that taught me to let go of the idea that I had to master everything. That trying was enough.
• Crafting became an extension of my love for thrifting. There’s something magical about finding discarded pieces and giving them new life. It reminded me that transformation is possible, always.
• Gardening taught me trust. Slowness. Surrender. You can’t rush growth, in plants or people. It showed me the importance of tending, of pulling weeds, of nourishing something just because you love it. It taught me how to be present with what’s alive and the joy of harvesting and eating from your own garden

When I take all of these together, I realize: they weren’t failures. They were seasons. And like people, places, and memories, hobbies can come into your life to offer you something, and then leave once their work is done.

We’re often told not to take people for granted. Maybe we can hold our past hobbies with the same respect. Maybe they came to teach you something, to walk you through a specific moment, and when the lesson was over, they moved on.

Is there a website where hobby jumpers can trade tools, supplies, and stories? If not there should be. A place to honor what we learned, and pass the torch. Because sometimes, moving on from a hobby doesn’t mean it didn’t matter. It means that it did.

---

Section 4: The Grief and Grace of Letting Go

No one really talks about the grief that comes with outgrowing a version of yourself.

When you let go of a hobby, it can feel like you’re abandoning something, or someone, that once lit you up. It’s not just the supplies collecting dust in the closet. It’s the emotional investment, the time, and the money. It’s the identity you briefly wore while you explored that new thing. For a while, perhaps it gave you purpose. A creative spark, or a lifeline in the middle of something hard. When it ends, even if it ends naturally, there’s a quiet sadness to it.

Sometimes I look back and remember when I had an entire art studio in my home. Canvases leaned against the walls. Paints were organized by hue. There were boxes of driftwood, tubs of yarn and fabric, glitter, gloves, and a well-worn toolbox tucked in the corner. I painted, crafted, pieced things together. I even had my yoga trapeze rigged up in the middle of the room, and I’d dance down there, barefoot, free, messy, alive.

And now it’s gone. My studio. My home. My artwork. The supplies I collected, the pieces I loved. All of it, gone. Losing it shattered me. For a while, I couldn’t even talk about it without crying. I grieved not just the things, but the version of me who once lived in that space and believed she was finally safe.

But what I’ve learned is this: when everything is stripped away, you find out what’s really yours. What no one can take. And for me, that was my mind, my voice, my creativity, or my will to keep going.

So I started again and then again after I failed the first time.

This time, my hobbies became more intentional. With nothing but a laptop and a stubborn hope, I taught myself to code so I could build my own website. I studied marketing and branding so I could start a business rooted in everything I cared about. I learned graphic design so I could make my own apparel. I taught myself how to publish books and create workbooks. Every skill I needed, I found a way to learn. Every piece of myself I thought I lost started showing up in new ways, not as hobbies, but as tools. As building blocks.

What I once explored for fun, I now use with purpose. But the heart of it hasn’t changed, it’s still about curiosity, creativity, and connection.

And that’s the beautiful full circle of it: these hobbies weren’t just distractions or failed attempts at consistency, they were preparing me. Every one of them. Teaching me something new. Showing me a path I couldn’t yet see. Equipping me for a life I never could have planned, but somehow always felt like mine.

Letting go isn’t failure. It’s movement. It’s evolution. It’s trust.

And sometimes, what feels like the end of a hobby is actually the beginning of a calling.

Thank you for reading.
If this spoke to you, you’re not alone. Your curiosity, creativity, and many new beginnings are not flaws, they’re part of your path.

You can find more of my work, offerings, and creations
✨ 1:1 peer support · intuitive sessions · energy healing · poetry · tees · workbooks & more

Keep growing. Keep exploring. You’re allowed to start over, as many times as it takes.

Wendi Kehn 💫