Nurturing ‘slow hobbies’ in a fast-paced world

The other day, during a video call, my daughter held up a scarf before the camera with her excitement bubbling over. “I made this for you,” she announced, waiting for my reaction. The stitches were uneven in places, the colour combination slightly eccentric, but to me, it looked perfect.

Naturally, my curiosity took over. “Where did you suddenly learn knitting from? And more importantly, where did you even find knitting needles and wool?”

She told me about a knitting club on her university campus. Apparently, all one has to do is sign up, and the club hands you needles, wool, and patient seniors who teach you how to turn tangled yarn into something warm and wearable. Their meetings, she said, usually end with everyone comparing their crooked scarves, lopsided caps, and accidental masterpieces over coffee and snacks.

As she spoke, I found it extremely moving that in a world obsessed with speed — instant messages, instant noodles, instant success — here were young people willingly sitting together, counting stitches, unravelling mistakes, and learning the gentle art of patience.

Perhaps it is just a trend. Perhaps it is therapy disguised as a hobby. But somewhere between the clicking of needles and the laughter over coffee, I felt there was something deeply comforting about it, a quiet rebellion against the rush of modern life, where people are once again learning the joy of making something slowly, lovingly, one stitch at a time. Perhaps it was time to nurture ‘slow-hobbies’ in a fast-paced world.

For quite some time now, I have noticed this quiet trend among youngsters, middle-aged housewives and seniors in their sunset years, not only in metropolises but even in smaller towns— their growing fondness for hobbies that demand patience and provide solace rather than speed. And believe me, the first time I truly noticed it was while watching a K-drama, where the heroes were often shown knitting scarves or cooking elaborate meals, not to impress anyone, but simply to unwind after exhausting days. At that time, it seemed charmingly fictional. Now, it feels deeply real.

And perhaps it is no surprise.

The lives young people lead today are breathless marathons disguised as routine. Their mornings begin before sunrise with the frantic rush to school for extra classes or practice sessions, followed by six or seven gruelling hours of academics. Then comes the hurried lunch eaten between destinations, the race to tuition or coaching classes, and finally the return home — not to rest, but to homework waiting like another unfinished obligation. Somewhere in this endless timetable, childhood quietly slips through the cracks.

The same goes for young professionals or housewives, who crumble under anxiety, exhaustion, and emotional fatigue. An evening or an hour of indulgence in such hobbies can rejuvenate them for the gruelling week ahead because what they seek is not laziness or escape, but simply a moment where life does not feel like a race. 

No wonder these slow hobbies feel like tiny sanctuaries. A few rows of knitting, the stirring of a simmering pot, a badly baked cake, a twisted candle, or a half-finished painting on an old t-shirt — these are not merely hobbies anymore. These are pauses. Breathing spaces. Small acts of reclaiming calm in lives that rarely allow stillness.