There’s a quiet kind of joy I didn’t expect to find in adulthood: doing chores and personal projects.
I’m not talking about errands. I mean the kind of chores and projects that could be ignored, outsourced, or just left broken. But instead, you decide to roll up your sleeves, dig in, and figure it out.
Take weed whacking. We have a serious weed problem at the ranch. But over time, I’ve started to geek out on the process. How to hold the weed whacker to avoid back pain. Which angle gives you the cleanest cut. Whether a sweeping motion works better than short bursts. Even which strap setup saves your shoulders. I love the 36V Makita model and the Oregon brand of line. It’s weirdly satisfying to dial all those little details in. And after I finish? There’s usually a deep sense of satisfaction. It’s hard to explain, but it feels like I did something meaningful for myself and my family—a small, tangible improvement that makes our life better.
This wasn’t always the case. Growing up, chores were a drag. Even in Santa Barbara, our approach was basically: ignore it, live with it, or hire someone expensive. But after moving to the ranch four years ago, something shifted. Maybe it was the fact that help isn’t just a phone call away out here. Or maybe it’s that there isn’t a cool bar or a late-night coffee shop down the street. Entertainment looks a lot more like walking around at sunset and stumbling into some weird thing that needs fixing. Next thing you know, you’re wearing a headlamp, Googling how to fix a drain pipe.
This week, I built a chicken perch. Not because I had to. But because it was too hot in their coop and I wanted to give them a better place to sleep. I saw an idea on Instagram, sketched it in my notebook, realized I had the scrap wood, and started building. Then I added little food buckets to lure them up there. Next version is going to have a bell I ring to call them in Pavlov-style. It took a few nights of small effort, and it made me unreasonably happy. It was a fun blend of using my hands and tapping into the tech world—I went from a screenshot to a sketch to a working prototype. Even used ChatGPT to check my drawing and suggest how to stabilize it. There’s something special about bringing an idea into the real world with your own hands.
I call this kind of stuff “puttering.”
Puttering has become a way to decompress. I work from home, which is a gift, but there’s no commute to mark the shift from work brain to real life. Chores and projects help with that. They give me a way to transition. There’s a meditative aspect to it—a reset.
They also scratch an itch that work or entertainment don’t. Work challenges me in some ways. Entertainment doesn’t challenge me at all. But chores? Projects? They get my brain firing. They help me grow. Especially when I’m too cheap to hire someone and think, “If the guy on YouTube can do it, I probably can too.” That mindset has become one of the biggest things I’ve gained: the sense that I’m only one or two YouTube videos away from figuring something out. That confidence has spilled over into other parts of life. I’m less timid. More willing to open up a panel, poke around, and see what happens. There’s something really cool about that.
It’s also a great way to notice things. Like the other day, I found a leak in the sprinkler line and ended up discovering this little pond the original owners had built. If I hadn’t slowed down and started poking around, I would’ve missed it. That’s what these small tasks do: they help you notice stuff. Appreciate stuff. Feel like the place you live in is yours.
To anyone who dreads this kind of stuff, I get it. I still dread dishes. But I’ve learned to find little grooves—throw on a podcast, put my headphones in. And for bigger projects, the hardest part is usually just starting. So I prep the night before. I lay out tools, check my screws, cue up the YouTube tutorial, sketch out some ideas. That helps get over the inertia.
As long as it’s not dangerous, give it a shot. See how it goes. You might discover a kind of joy you didn’t know you were missing.
