What Is Hobby Core—and Why Does Everyone Suddenly Have a Personality Made of Clay, Thread, and Aesthetic Film Grain?

A potter carefully applies glaze to a ceramic piece, surrounded by various colourful paint containers, showcasing the delicate art of pottery decoration.

There’s a new kind of social currency whispering through our feeds—not loud like hustle culture, but tactile, tender, and trimmed in pastel: the hobby. But not just any hobby. A curated, softly-lit, narratable one. Whether it's a ceramic mug being pinched into shape in a local pottery class or a DIY clay kit unboxed on camera, hobby core has taken over the collective psyche—and it’s quietly reshaping how we define value, time, and even selfhood.

But why now? Why this obsession with hobbies—and why do they all look like they belong on a film camera highlight reel?

The Hobby Core Renaissance

A cosy afternoon spent knitting a soft pattern, with a cup of tea and a magazine close at hand.

Let’s start with the obvious: hobbies are back, and they’re suddenly everywhere. Pottery classes are booked out. Knitting kits are selling out. Candle-pouring workshops and weekend watercolour retreats are drawing in the same crowd that once queued outside Zara on launch day.

This isn’t about baking banana bread (that was lockdown). This is about creation—slower, prettier, more shareable. Think beaded rings, hand-built ashtrays, embroidery hoops, and zines. Hobbies today are small acts of craftsmanship that must be filmed, ideally with ambient music, natural light, and a caption that reads “A slow Sunday in my hobby era.”

And it’s not just an aesthetic. It’s catching on in ways you can physically feel. I remember watching an Instagram Reel by an influencer titled “Things to do indoors in London when it rains.” She’d gone to Flying Tiger, picked up a ceramic mug you could paint at home, and made a whole DIY project out of it. It was such a small, charming moment—but I got so into it, I wanted the exact same kit. I visited three different Flying Tiger stores and all of them were sold out. That told me everything. Hobby Core isn’t a quiet trend anymore. It’s a full-on cultural movement—and people are buying in.

The Rise of Hobby Core Spaces: When Stores Become Studios

This isn’t just about buying a hobby kit—it’s about finding places that invite you to stay, create, and connect.

Take DRMLND in Germany, for instance. What started as a dreamy little concept store has turned into a full-fledged creative hub. Their workshops—ranging from ceramic painting to journaling—are designed for modern-day hobbyists who want to romanticise everyday creativity. You don’t just shop there; you linger, you paint, you share. Their tagline might as well be: “Come for the clay, stay for the community.”

Then there’s Flying Tiger Copenhagen, a chain many know for its quirky stationery and cute homeware—but recently, it’s also become a surprising player in the DIY hobby scene. Their shelves are now dotted with ceramic painting kits, beading sets, and make-your-own candle kits, often selling out faster than expected. It’s clear that Hobby Core isn’t just trending online anymore—it’s moving into stores, into shopping baskets, and into people’s real, lived-in routines.

And over in the U.S., places like Color Me Mine are drawing people in with paint-your-own pottery sessions that double as social events. Birthday parties, girls’ nights, even solo reset days—these studios make space for slow creativity, not just consumption.

Together, these stores reflect a growing shift: people don’t just want to buy cute things—they want to make them, document them, and maybe even do it together.

The Performance of Passion

As one Reddit user poignantly asked on r/Hobbies, “Why do people insist on me having a hobby?” They go on to write:

“I just want to exist without having to prove that I make the most of every spare minute.”

This comment cuts to the heart of Hobby Core’s paradox. In a world where hobbies were once private and clumsy—bad sketches in a notebook, half-finished scarves—they’re now public-facing and polished. They’ve become aesthetic performances, and in some cases, social proof.

But maybe, that isn’t always a bad thing.

Maybe the act of filming a knitting project or unboxing a clay kit isn’t just about going viral, it’s about sharing possibilities. Creating a quiet sense of community. Helping someone else see what they, too, could be good at—or at least try. Because sometimes, after we’ve scrolled endlessly through a sea of content, it’s a softly lit hobby video that pulls us out of the spiral and into something more intentional. Not all videos are for vanity—some are invitations.

Garden enthusiasts collaborate in a lush community garden, tending to vibrant flowers and sharing a passion for greenery.

Cuteness, Creation & Capitalism

In a New York Times piece, The Case for Hobbies, the writer observes that hobbies give us a break from productivity culture by letting us do something badly. And yet, in 2025, even the act of doing something badly has been rebranded—into something lovable, marketable, and charmingly clumsy.

Hobbies must now be aesthetic. That’s the rule. They must be “cute” enough to post, but sincere enough to not feel try-hard. The rise of “that girl” wellness merged with soft DIY culture, and suddenly, knitting isn’t just grandma-coded—it’s aspirational.

The Hobby as Identity

On LinkedIn, Amit Aggarwal writes about the growing consumer market around hobbies. Brands have caught on. There’s a surge in curated hobby kits: learn to tuft rugs, paint Dutch still lifes, or crochet coasters that look like citrus fruit. But deeper than consumerism, Aggarwal hints at how hobbies today are a form of identity-building.

They help us answer the modern anxiety: Who am I outside of my work?

This is especially true in the post-pandemic era. After years of blurred work-life boundaries and isolation, hobbies became a reclamation. A way to mark time again—not in tasks, but in textures. And while the Michigan Daily's essay “The Rise and Fall of Genuine Hobbies” critiques how capitalism co-opted hobby culture, it also concedes that the movement has a heart. Even if it’s branded.

Solitude or Soft Belonging?

Hobby Core is beautifully liminal. It’s something you do alone—but never entirely in isolation. You film it to share. You post to connect. The intention might be community, validation, or even quiet documentation. But in all forms, it creates a thread—between you and others who feel the same.

Sometimes a knitting video on TikTok feels like a warm body beside you. Sometimes watching someone hand-build a tray out of clay reminds you that maybe your evenings don’t have to be filled with doomscrolling. Maybe it’s after doomscrolling that the curiosity begins—the quiet, flickering thought: what if I tried that?

And even if you don’t take up the hobby, the video still offers something: a window into someone else’s rhythm. A new way of being that you can observe, admire, or perhaps eventually adopt.

The Hobby as Gentle Reflection

In a world that demands constant output, Hobby Core offers something slower. Something rooted in touch, process, and personal joy. It’s the return of ritual. The reawakening of play. A knitted scarf you’ll never wear. A wobbly mug that holds nothing but air. A video that no one might watch—but you’ll post anyway.

Because maybe, just maybe, it’s not about proving you have a hobby. Maybe it’s about remembering that you’re allowed to be enchanted by the act of making.