I remember that, ever since I was a child, my mum spoke in sayings. As I grew older, one of them seemed to come up more and more often: in the blacksmith’s house, there is a wooden spoon.
It's a common saying in Latin America, at least that's what I believe, when describing people who are good at something or who work in a certain profession but whose own surroundings don't match that skill. Think, for example, of a blacksmith who shapes metal brilliantly and sells the best cutlery but still uses a wooden spoon when eating at home.
I always found it interesting. Or, honestly, pretty funny. But as I got older, I started noticing how often it applied.
The architect with white walls
When I began studying architecture, everyone at home expected my first place to be something I had built myself. It was not. It was a simple apartment I liked, with enough space to rest.
Later, after taking courses in Feng Shui and color theory, I remember my aunts coming to my mum’s house to ask which colors they should use and why I was not helping her paint hers. The first time they set foot in my apartment, it was chaos.
“Sweetheart, why don’t your walls have any color?”
My cousins had their own versions of the same joke. I had a dragon placed perfectly on my desk and a Buddha in the right spot. I did not overdo mirrors. And because I prefer minimalism, I leaned into white and soft undertones for everything.
But the explanation was much simpler: I came home tired. Drained. I wanted to rest, not paint the living-room wall at three on a Saturday afternoon.
I would rather order a pizza, download some music, and wait while Vuze downloaded an ISO of Need for Speed to burn onto one of the blank CDs I had picked up on my way home.
The work we leave for ourselves
Jumping ahead a few years, now a Frontend Software Engineer with a Product Design background, I look at my website and feel it has the same wooden-spoon effect. And now it is not an architect’s home people walk into: it is a software engineer’s portfolio.
It is simple. I made it quickly with AI. It does what it needs to do: it shows who I am. Still, it is fair to expect a little more from the website of someone who spends his days thinking about digital products, code, and experiences. But if you ask me, the reason underneath is still simple.
Sometimes the work we do leaves us so drained that we have little left for ourselves. The wooden spoon is not always a sign that we do not care, or that we cannot do better. Sometimes it is simply the most practical thing at hand.
Over time, I have found it helps to set small, realistic goals for my own projects and treat them with the same respect I give my work for others. Sometimes that means blocking out an hour just for myself, or letting go of the idea that everything needs to be pixel-perfect. Even making a tiny bit of progress can feel like a win, and helps me reconnect with the parts of my work that I love most.
It serves its purpose, even if it is not what we would have chosen from the beginning.
And perhaps that is worth remembering when we look at someone else’s unfinished website, unpainted wall, or imperfect personal project. The truth is, many of us share this experience. No matter how skilled we are in our fields, it is easy to set our own projects aside and focus on delivering great results for others. We are often very good at giving our best work to the world. Learning to save a little of it for ourselves is the harder part.