When Passion Fades: The Struggle Between Obligation and Desire

There’s a noticeable difference in how I feel when I’m doing something I genuinely want to do, versus when I’m just completing a task someone gave me. I think I first became aware of this during my third year of college. At that point, I had a mountain of assignments—some from class, others from research projects. They weren’t particularly difficult, but something felt off.

The problem wasn’t the workload. It was the lack of continuity. Once I completed an assignment, I didn’t feel motivated to keep going or explore further. It was like my brain flipped a switch: task done, now shut down. There was no internal drive to go beyond the bare minimum, and honestly, if it weren’t for the looming deadlines, I probably wouldn’t have done them at all.

And that word—deadline—has always rubbed me the wrong way. It felt cold, mechanical. To me, you should want to do something because you’re curious, excited, or passionate—not simply because someone told you to do it within a set timeframe.

This frustration with external expectations isn’t new. I’ve always compared the energy I put into "deadline tasks" with the flow I get when I’m doing things just because I feel like it. This blog post is part of a series where I’m trying to understand why some activities spark enthusiasm and creativity, while others—no matter how small—drain me completely.

At one point, I wondered if my attention span was wrecked by smartphone addiction. I tried forcing myself to cut back, but that didn’t solve anything. If something is truly engaging, it should easily compete with mindless scrolling or random cat videos. Yet somehow, it didn’t.

I’ve also steered clear of motivational videos. They might give you a quick jolt of inspiration, but it’s short-lived. They don't offer sustainable change, at least not for me.

Interestingly, I heard Magnus Carlsen talk about this on the Joe Rogan podcast. He said he loved playing chess for the sake of it, but lost interest when his coach started giving him arbitrary training assignments. It became a chore, and the joy disappeared. I related to that deeply. Not that I’m on Carlsen’s level, but I think the core issue is similar: when something doesn’t come from within, it doesn’t feel like mine. And maybe that’s the trick—maybe the key to doing something wholeheartedly is feeling like you chose it yourself.

It reminds me of the difference between walking and being pushed. If you're walking on your own path—even if it's uphill—you’re in control of the pace, the direction, and the purpose. But if someone’s behind you, pushing you forward, the same walk suddenly feels heavier, even if the terrain hasn’t changed. The weight isn’t in your legs—it’s in your mind.

This also shows up in creative projects. I remember a time when I spontaneously started learning to sketch. I was excited, watching tutorials, practicing lines, losing hours in that beautiful zone where time disappears. But the moment I signed up for a structured online course with weekly assignments and “feedback deadlines,” the excitement vanished. It felt like I’d turned my hobby into homework.

And maybe that’s where the deeper question lies: how do we protect the joy in what we do? How do we keep something from becoming an obligation, even if it needs structure? Perhaps the answer is less about rejecting discipline and more about owning it. Choosing your own deadlines. Setting your own goals. Making the work feel like an extension of your interests, not a disruption of them.

Sometimes I think the answer is in curiosity. When you’re curious, you're not chasing a goal—you’re just exploring. Like a child digging through sand, not trying to build a castle, just fascinated by what’s beneath. That energy is different. It’s sustainable. And it’s fulfilling in a way that “finishing tasks” never is.

So I’m still figuring it out—how to keep that spark alive. How to balance the things I must do with the things I want to do, and ideally make the two overlap more often. Until then, I’ll keep writing, reflecting, and trying to notice the difference between walking freely and being pushed.

Why ‘Liking’ Something Might Be an Illusion

I've had friends tell me they "really like programming," and that statement stuck with me. At times, I felt the same way myself.

After completing a project—like building my own version of Tetris or a simple To-Do app using a newly discovered graphics library—I would feel a strong sense of enjoyment for programming. But by the next day, that excitement would fade. This phenomenon never quite made sense to me. Isn’t "liking" something supposed to be a long-term feeling? At least, that's how I always thought it should work.

Recently, however, I had an insight that helped clarify this contradiction. What if it's impossible to "like" doing something in itself? If that were true, it would mean that even "liking to do good for the community" isn’t a real thing—which might sound strange, but let me explain.

I now believe that instead of liking an activity itself, what we actually enjoy is doing that activity well. This idea makes more sense when considering how humans, like all living beings, rely on feedback from their environment to gauge success and progress.

Think about the first time you try to understand how integrated circuits work. At first, the green tracks on the chip seem meaningless. But then you learn that they transfer electricity to different parts of the chip, making the whole system function. You go from knowing nothing to understanding something significant—your learning rate is practically infinite. Since you improved so quickly, it feels great, and you might conclude that you "really like electronics." But what you actually enjoy is learning electronics well. Later, when you dive into more complex topics like energy bands, the process is much slower and frustrating. Suddenly, you don’t "like" it as much anymore.

Here’s a more practical example: I tried surfing three times in my life. The first time, I actively focused on improvement, applying techniques I had seen in a YouTube video. The result? I did surprisingly well, and my brain told me, "I like surfing!" But on my second and third attempts, I felt more relaxed, assuming I had already grasped the basics. However, without muscle memory to reinforce my previous learning, my technique declined. I mispositioned my feet, mistimed the waves, and struggled more than before. My brain now told me the opposite: "I don't like surfing."

These examples suggest that people generally enjoy doing things well rather than just doing them. This perspective also explains a common behavioral pattern: people tend to overestimate their abilities and progress. Initially, I saw this as a flaw, but now I wonder if it might be beneficial. If we need to feel competent to enjoy an activity, then those who overestimate themselves may be more inclined to pursue and stick with new challenges simply because they believe they’re good at them.

This argument challenges the idea that humility is always a virtue. According to this hypothesis, excessive humility could be detrimental—it might prevent someone from recognizing their own competence, thereby reducing their motivation to continue. On the other hand, extreme overconfidence can lead to arrogance and social issues. The ideal balance lies somewhere in between: acknowledging progress without becoming overconfident.

One lingering question remains: Does "doing well" always require comparison? If so, that would explain why Chris Pratt’s character in Passengers became so bored over time—without anyone to compare himself to, he lost a sense of achievement. But even without direct comparison, I believe people can still enjoy activities if they see personal growth and improvement.

With all that said, the next time you hear someone say, "I like doing this," it might be worth asking: What exactly do they like? Is it the activity itself—or the feeling of doing it well?