There’s something to be said about working with your hands. The whole DIY thing—patching a leaky faucet, sanding down a splintered door, fixing the fence before it falls over—doesn’t get the credit it used to. These skills were once passed down like family recipes or last names. Now they’re slipping away, replaced by apps, services, and things that break faster than they’re fixed.

I still remember the first time I helped my dad change the oil in his truck. He didn’t explain much, just handed me a socket wrench and pointed. I didn’t know what I was doing, but I knew it mattered that I was doing it. We didn’t talk much—just the occasional “watch your fingers” or “tighten, not strip”—but that silence said plenty. It was the kind of lesson you only learn by doing. Grit under your nails. Grease on your shirt. And the unforgettable moment I dropped the oil pan bolt and got a nice splash of 10W-30 to the face. He didn’t laugh right away—but when he did, it was one of those deep, silent laughs that meant I’d officially earned my stripes.

And then there was yard work. The kind that starts early on a Saturday morning, when you’d rather be sleeping in, before the sun turns the dirt into concrete. Mowing, trimming, pulling weeds, raking leaves—never glamorous, rarely urgent, but always necessary. Yard work teaches discipline in its purest form: doing the work even when you don’t feel like it. It’s showing up, finishing the job, and not cutting corners—because someone’s watching, or maybe just because you know your mom will call you back out if she spots one weed.

Sometimes you worked side by side, passing the rake back and forth in a rhythm that didn’t need words. Other times, it was just you and your thoughts. Yard work had a way of clearing your head while you cleared the lawn. The repetition gave your hands something to do while your mind wandered—sorting out a problem, replaying a conversation, making peace with something you hadn’t quite named yet. Or wondering, once again, why your family insisted on having the biggest yard in the neighborhood.

These tasks—these simple, physical acts—offered more than just finished jobs. They offered time. Connection. Focus. Patience. Discipline. A chance to build something with someone else—or quietly rebuild something inside yourself.

I look around now and see fewer kids holding tools and more holding screens. That’s fine, to a point. But I can’t help but wonder what we’re losing when we stop fixing things ourselves. There’s a certain confidence that comes from solving a problem with your own two hands, even if it takes a few tries, a few splinters, and a few curse words whispered when no one’s listening.

Working with your hands teaches you to be resourceful. Teaches you to respect the work, the materials, and the people who showed you how. Teaches you to finish what you start—even if it’s hot, even if it’s hard, even if no one’s clapping when it’s done. And if you’re lucky, you walk away with a few stories, a few scars, and maybe a patchy sunburn to remember it by.

That stuff sticks with you. Even if your shelves aren’t perfectly level or your paint job has a few drips.

Because in the end, it’s not just about what you’re building.

It’s about who you’re becoming while you build it.

Thanks for stopping by. If you haven’t already, poke around Inkblotz—a mix of funny, quiet, and thoughtful stories you might’ve lived yourself. There’s always more to read, remember, and laugh at.