The only way to be really happy is to never do it for the money

 The first time someone told me to sell my crochet, it was a very big compliment to my crochet journey. What I didn’t realize then was that it was also the beginning of the end of something soft.

I started crocheting casually in 2019. Nothing serious. Just something to fill time. But when COVID hit, and the world was in lockdown, it grew. Like everyone else during quarantine, I suddenly had time to repeat the same motions, time to get better. That’s when I perfected it. That’s when crochet stopped being something I did and became something I returned to.

It was taught to me by someone I cherish deeply. It was our thing. Our quiet way of being present with each other without needing too many words. Stitch by stitch, conversation by conversation, crochet carried more than yarn; it carried memory, connection, meaning.

Then one day, someone said, “You should sell these.”

And just like that, joy entered a negotiation.

I’ve seen creatives and artists talk about how commercialization quietly steals the why. Once something becomes profitable, it also comes under pressure. Once it starts earning, it starts demanding.

Mutoriah’s recent release put words to that feeling. There’s a line where he says, “The only way to be really happy is to never do it for the money.”

Don’t shoot the messenger. I know money can buy happiness. Stability is happiness. Security is happiness. Let’s not romanticize struggle. But sometimes, and stay with me here, money also steals happiness.

From my own experience, when I tried to commercialize crochet, it stopped being a place I went to breathe and started being a place I went to perform. What was once intimate now needed pricing. What was once slow now needed speed. What was once mine now needed approval.

The why started disappearing.

When crochet was just for me, I could pause mid-project. I could leave pieces unfinished. I could crochet badly and still feel fulfilled. There was no audience waiting, no algorithm to impress, no customer to explain myself to. Once money entered the picture, expectations followed. And expectations are loud. They don’t care about memory. They don’t care about meaning. They care about output.

I’m not writing this to say hobbies shouldn’t be commercialized. Money matters. Turning a craft into income can be empowering, sustaining, or even necessary. But it’s also okay to admit this: sometimes the moment you put a price tag on something, it loses its meaning. Sometimes profit dilutes the reason you started. Sometimes, the why doesn’t survive the transaction.

And that doesn’t make you ungrateful or unserious. It just means you noticed the shift.

So if the joy starts leaving when money enters the room, listen. If your hands move differently under expectation, pay attention. Not everything you love is meant to be optimized or scaled.

Maybe some things are just meant to be hobbies.

Do you think commercialization ruins the joy of hobbies?