New Year’s Day was mostly a quiet, lazy one for me—nothing special, just some time to relax. But I did manage to do something that feels a little bit monumental: I signed up for a Drawing for Beginners class at the local college. It’s one of their Continuing & Community Education classes, which means it’s low-stakes and open to anyone who just wants to learn something new.

Now, here’s the thing: this is not something I would have done for myself in the past. For most of my life, I’ve been the guy behind the scenes—the husband, the dad, the one who holds down the fort while everyone else chases their dreams and explores their interests. And I’ve been happy to play that role, truly. But lately, I’ve started to wonder what it would be like to do something just for me. It’s taken a while to shake the idea that doing so would be “selfish,” but this class feels like a small step in that direction.

I’ve always wanted to learn how to draw. Not because I have some grand plan to be the next Picasso—trust me, I don’t. It’s just something I’ve always thought would be fun to do. That said, I’m horrendous at it right now. Any game that involves drawing—Pictionary, Telestrations—has me practically breaking out in a sweat. My stick figures look like they’re having a bad day. But I’m not signing up to become amazing; I’m signing up to give myself permission to be a beginner.

At first, I thought about teaching myself at home. A sketchpad, some pencils, and YouTube tutorials—it would’ve been cheaper and easier to fit into my schedule. But then I realized the bigger appeal of an in-person class: it gets me out of the house. For someone who works from home, exercises in a garage gym, and generally spends a lot of time in his own bubble, the idea of walking into a classroom full of strangers felt oddly… exciting. And maybe a little intimidating, too.

The class starts in a couple of weeks, but I’m already equipped with everything I need, thanks to my oldest daughter. When she asked me what I wanted for Christmas, I saw an opportunity. I sent her a list of the required class supplies—a sketchpad, graphite and charcoal pencils, erasers, and a sharpener. On Christmas morning, I unwrapped the whole set, and there it was: my not-so-subtle push to stop procrastinating, get comfortable with being uncomfortable, and sign up for the class.

Those supplies sat on my desk for a week, almost daring me to take the next step. Yesterday, I finally did it. I logged onto the college’s website, created an account, and hit “register.” It felt like crossing some invisible line—one where I could say, “Yeah, this is for me.”

So here I am, about to try something new at 54 years of age, and I’m equal parts nervous and excited. I don’t know if I’ll be any good at drawing, and honestly, I don’t care. What matters to me is that I’m doing something I’ve always wanted to do, and I’m doing it for no other reason than it makes me happy. That feels pretty good.