when i was younger, my parents signed me up for piano lessons with a family friend. at the start, i was all in. i loved the whole routine: packing my sheet music, walking to class, soaking in the experience. i was so swept up by it that, within a week, i asked my parents to buy me the piano from class, a 1910 steinway—completely unaware of its wild price tag. we settled on a basic keyboard instead.
for a while, it stayed fun. i performed at recitals, learned new songs, and felt proud of the progress i was making. but a few years and performances later, the spark began to fade. what once felt like play began to feel like work. i wasn’t excited to learn new pieces anymore. the effort it took started to outweigh the enjoyment. i felt good enough.
the joy i once felt walking to class or flipping through sheet music slowly turned into dread. eventually, i started asking my parents to let me quit—and after enough pleading, they agreed.
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there’s something about us as humans. we love ideas. we love imagining how something might be or could be. sometimes we take it a step further and actually pursue those ideas. but then comes the inevitable crossroads—the point where the novelty begins to wear off and we’re faced with a choice: quit or stick it out.
sometimes we quit. maybe it’s not for us, or it feels too hard. maybe we just don’t care enough anymore. other times, we stay. but either way, that crossroads acts as a kind of filter. it weeds out passing interests from the ones that have a chance at becoming something more.
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the journey of pursuit:
i left piano in the “or not” part of this timeline. sometimes i think back to the hobbies i let go of—not with regret, but with curiosity. i’m not really a should’ve-could’ve person. there’s no use wondering what might’ve happened if i’d pushed a little more. but what stands out is the pattern: every pursuit reaches a point where the rush of the new disappears, and what’s left is effort without excitement.
i've realized that moment isn’t a sign to stop. it’s actually the real beginning. the people who push through that stage, who stick around long enough to work through the boredom or frustration, are usually the ones who build something meaningful and become the expert.
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this doesn’t just apply to skills or hobbies. it shows up in relationships too—any kind, not just romantic ones.
at first, everything feels fresh and easy. there’s a natural excitement in getting to know someone new, joining a team, or stepping into a new community. you want to be around them, you talk often, and everything seems to click. but eventually, the early rhythm slows. differences begin to surface and habits may start to clash. conversations might take more effort, and spending time together may feel a little more strained than before. it’s not that anything is wrong—it’s just the natural progression.
that moment is when things truly begin to take shape. when you keep showing up and continue to care even when it takes more intention and energy, you're no longer coasting on novelty. you're building something with depth.
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it’s easy to stop just short of that turning point. once the excitement wears off, it’s tempting to move on and assume the loss of momentum means it’s not the right fit. but often, what comes next is where things actually get interesting.
because in anything—whether a skill or relationship—what separates a fleeting phase from something meaningful is how you move forward once the novelty fades.
what i’m learning is that it takes time and patience to get there. staying past the high means accepting discomfort and uncertainty without always looking for the exit. not everything will be worth that effort, but some things are. and the only way to know is to give them the time and energy to become something real.
- manvi :)