The Sawdust Mirage: Pressure of a woodworker
If you’ve ever stood in your garage—surrounded by a majestic army of high-end equipment—and thought, “I should really build something,” only to spend the next three hours lovingly reorganizing your clamps by emotional support level, this one’s for you.
Let’s be honest: your workshop looks like it was designed by NASA’s woodworking division. the CNC machine hums with the serene chaos of juggling tuning forks, a table saw that could bisect time, and a dust collection system that might qualify as a minor deity.
And yet, the most substantial thing you’ve built is a box (kind of a box, the CNC did the work) and some passive-aggressive coasters.
You own a laser engraver, but the only thing it’s engraved is your shame.
But that’s okay. you believe in the power of potential. And also in the therapeutic value of staring at walnut boards like they owe you money and an apology.
You didn’t mean to become a tool hoarder. It just happened. One minute you’re watching a guy on YouTube build a canoe with a rusty spoon and a dream, and the next you’re dropping $400 on a router lift because “precision matters” and “it was on sale” and “I’ll definitely use it for something someday probably maybe.”
Your spouse walks in and asks, “What are you making?”
You say, “Decisions.”
You own three miter saws. You use none of them. You have a moisture meter, a digital caliper, and a set of brass setup blocks so beautiful they should be in a museum. You once bought a $200 dovetail jig to make a whiskey cabinet for your son. The cabinet is still a concept (I have the wood, if that makes it better). The jig is now a shelf.
Here’s the truth: you do spend time in the shop. You just don’t produce furniture. You produce vibes. You produce hope. You produce a deeply satisfying sense of “almost.”
You’ve become a philosopher of plywood. A monk of maple. A bard of birch. A poet of padauk. A tragic hero of MDF (I ran out of metaphorical epithets) . You are the Hamlet of hardwood—paralyzed by choice, haunted by grain direction, and deeply unsure whether to mortise or tenon.
You whisper sweet nothings to your orbital sander. You name your clamps. You build jigs for projects that exist only in the realm of imagination and Pinterest boards. You once spent four hours building a sled for your table saw. You’ve never used it. But it’s there. Watching. Judging. Like a passive-aggressive roommate who knows you’ll never finish that floating shelf.
And then comes the dreaded question:
“So, what have you built?”
You panic. You consider lying. “A mid-century modern credenza,” you say, while subtly nudging your crooked birdhouse behind a stack of lumber and praying no one notices the door is upside down. You tell yourself the birds appreciate the architectural whimsy.
Your son wants a katana rack. Your wife wants a coffee table for the cabin. And a spice rack, and a shoe bench, and a list of about 20 other things that makes you want to cry and/or fake a wrist injury.
You join forums. You post pictures of your shop, you write blog post about woodworking. You get comments like, “Wow, that’s a serious setup!” And you reply, “Still dialing it in,” which is code for “I’m emotionally attached to my lumber and afraid to commit.” You’ve built more excuses than furniture. You’ve built a fortress of procrastination, complete with a moat of half-finished plans and a drawbridge made of reclaimed pallet wood.
Eventually, you realize something profound: woodworking isn’t just about building things. It’s about becoming the kind of person who could build things. Someday. Maybe. If the humidity’s right, the shop spirits are cooperative, the stars align, your blade is sharp, your anxiety is low, and your wife isn’t asking what you spent on that new track saw that “looks exactly like the old one.”
Because here’s the thing: once you tell people you’re into woodworking, the expectations start rolling in like a lumber delivery you didn’t order but now have to pretend you meant to buy.
Your wife just wants you to finish something so she can stop telling people, “He’s very passionate.”
Suddenly, every trip to the shop feels like a performance review.You sketch ideas. You erase them. You re-sketch. You watch video after video on how to make a canoe out of reclaimed bourbon barrels. You don’t even like canoes. But now you’re pricing barrel staves.
And yet… you’re happy.
Because the truth is, the indecision is the joy. The process is the product. The act of standing in your shop, surrounded by tools you may never fully understand, dreaming up projects you may never start, is its own kind of creative fulfillment.
You’re not just making furniture. You’re making space — for ideas, for mistakes, for growth, for sawdust angels and existential crises.
You’re becoming the kind of person who thinks deeply about joinery, who debates the merits of shellac vs. polyurethane like it’s a political issue, who finds peace in the hum of a well-tuned bandsaw and the smell of freshly milled walnut.
Enjoy the sawdust. It’s the glitter of the woodworking world. It sticks to your clothes, your soul, and your dreams. It’s proof that you showed up. That you tried. That you’re still becoming.
And if anyone asks what you’ve built lately, just smile and say, “Character.” Then go reorganize your clamps again. They miss you.
