I spent $642.18 on a desk setup in March 2021 because I thought it would make me a ‘writer.’ I bought the walnut monitor stand from Grovemade, a mechanical keyboard with those clicky switches that sound like a 1950s newsroom, and a specific type of Edison bulb lamp that gives off a warm, amber glow that is supposedly conducive to deep thought. I sat there, in my perfectly curated little corner in my apartment in South Philly, and I didn’t write a single word for three weeks. I just stared at the grain of the wood. I was terrified that if I wrote something mediocre, I would somehow insult the expensive furniture I’d bought to house the greatness I hadn’t actually produced yet.
This is the aesthetic fear. It’s that low-level hum of anxiety telling you that if the process doesn’t look like a high-production YouTube thumbnail, the output isn’t going to be worth anything. It’s the reason you have twelve empty Moleskine notebooks but you do all your actual thinking on the back of grocery receipts because you’re scared of ‘ruining’ the nice paper with a bad idea.
The part where we pretend we’re all art directors
We’ve reached this weird point in culture where the vibe of doing the thing has become more important than the thing itself. I see it everywhere. People won’t go for a run unless they have the $160 Tracksmith shorts and a Garmin watch that tracks their VO2 max. They won’t start a garden unless they have the aesthetically pleasing galvanized steel raised beds. We are obsessed with the packaging of our lives.
I’m guilty of this too. I remember trying to start a podcast back in 2019. I spent four days—literally four full days of my life—designing the cover art on Canva. I was obsessing over hex codes and whether ‘burnt sienna’ conveyed the right amount of intellectual grit. I hadn’t even written a script. I hadn’t even tested my microphone. I was just playing house. What I mean is—actually, let me put it differently. I was building a stage for a play I hadn’t written. It’s a form of procrastination that feels like work because it’s visual and tangible. You can see the progress. ‘Look,’ you say to your partner, ‘I picked the font!’ But the font doesn’t say anything. The font is just a costume.
I might be wrong about this, but I think the internet has fundamentally broken our ability to be ‘bad’ at things in private. Everything we do is a potential piece of content. Even if you don’t post it, you’re viewing your own life through the lens of a third-party observer. You’re thinking about how the mess on your kitchen counter would look in a ‘day in the life’ reel. It’s exhausting. It’s like living inside a museum where you’re also the janitor.
I hate Notion and I think it’s making us stupider
This is my risky take, and I know people will disagree because everyone treats this app like a religion, but I genuinely believe Notion is the final boss of the aesthetic fear. I’ve tried it. I spent 12 hours over a weekend setting up a ‘Life Dashboard’ with custom icons and embedded Spotify playlists. It looked beautiful. It looked like I had my entire life under control.
The aesthetic fear turns your tools into your enemies. You spend more time sharpening the pencil than actually drawing.
But the reality was that I was doing ‘meta-work.’ I was moving blocks around instead of actually finishing my taxes or calling my mom. I refuse to use it now. I actively tell my friends to avoid it if they actually want to get things done. It’s a glorified sticker book for adults who want to feel productive while doing zero work. There, I said it. It’s a trap for people who want their to-do list to look like a Pinterest board. I’ve gone back to a yellow legal pad and a Pilot G2 pen (0.7mm, the only acceptable size). It’s ugly. It’s messy. My handwriting looks like a serial killer’s manifesto. But I actually get things done now. The lack of beauty in the tool removes the pressure for the work to be perfect.
Ugly tools produce honest work.
The ‘Cringe’ barrier is real
There’s a specific kind of embarrassment that comes with starting something and having it look amateur. I call it the Cringe Barrier. Most people never get over it. They see someone on TikTok with a $5,000 camera setup talking about their morning routine, and then they look at their own grainy phone footage and they just… stop. They feel like an imposter because their reality doesn’t match the polished aesthetic they consume.
Anyway, I was thinking about this when I visited this hole-in-the-wall sandwich shop in Chicago last year—I think it was called Al’s #1 Italian Beef on Taylor Street. The lighting was terrible. The floors were kind of sticky. There were no ‘curated’ decorations, just some faded photos of local B-list celebrities from the 90s. But that sandwich? It was the best thing I’ve ever eaten. They didn’t have the aesthetic fear. They just had the sandwich. They knew that the ‘vibe’ was irrelevant if the product was undeniable. But I digress. The point is that we’ve lost the ability to value the sandwich because we’re too busy complaining about the fluorescent lighting.
We are so afraid of being ‘uncool’ that we’ve become boring. We’ve sanded down all the rough edges of our personalities to fit into a specific, recognizable aesthetic—whether that’s ‘minimalist tech bro’ or ‘cottagecore’ or whatever the hell else is trending this week. It’s all a performance. And the worst part is, the performance is boring to watch. I’d much rather see someone’s genuine, messy, poorly-lit passion project than another perfectly color-graded video about ‘optimizing your morning.’
I tracked my output and the results were depressing
I actually did a little experiment on myself. For six months, I tracked my creative output across two different environments. For the first three months, I forced myself to work in my ‘aesthetic’ office. For the next three months, I worked primarily from a shitty folding chair in my basement or at a local diner with bad coffee and those red plastic cups.
- Aesthetic Office: Produced 4 blog posts, average length 800 words. Spent 60% of time ‘fiddling’ with settings, music, or lighting.
- The Basement/Diner: Produced 11 blog posts, average length 1,400 words. Spent 95% of time actually typing.
- Quality: The basement posts were consistently rated higher by my (admittedly small) audience for being ‘more raw’ and ‘less preachy.’
The data doesn’t lie. For me, at least, beauty was a distraction. It was a cushion that softened the blow of not actually working. When I was in the basement, I wanted to get the work done as fast as possible so I could leave. The discomfort was a catalyst. The lack of aesthetic meant there was nothing to do but the work.
How to stop caring (or at least care less)
I don’t have a ‘comprehensive guide’ for you. I hate those. But I can tell you what worked for me when I finally got tired of my own bullshit. I started deliberately making things ugly. I bought a cheap, shitty notebook from a CVS and used it to write my most important ideas. I started recording videos for my friends without checking the lighting. I embraced the ‘cringe.’
I know people will say, ‘But I like nice things! Why can’t I have a nice desk and still be productive?’ You can. Of course you can. But if you find yourself waiting to start until you have the ‘right’ gear or the ‘right’ space, you’re not an aesthete. You’re just scared. You’re using beauty as a shield against the vulnerability of being a beginner.
I’ve bought the same $120 boot four times—the Red Wing Moc Toe—because I know exactly how they wear down. I don’t care if there’s a more ‘stylish’ or ‘modern’ option. I like the reliability. I like that they look better when they’re covered in dirt. We should treat our work like those boots. It’s meant to be used, not just looked at. It’s meant to get scuffed up. If your process is too precious, you’ll never take the risks necessary to make something actually great.
I’m still sitting at that walnut desk, by the way. I couldn’t bring myself to sell it. But I’ve covered it in coffee stains and scratches. I stopped dusting it every morning. It’s no longer a shrine; it’s just a piece of wood where I do my job. And that feels a lot better.
Are you actually working, or are you just decorating the room where you’re supposed to be working?
Go make something ugly today.