When Life Crashes, Bake Bread.

I had a crash out. The kind where life smacks you with so much at once—work stress, money drama, mom exhaustion—that you just hit the wall. My therapist, bless her, sat there calmly while I unloaded and then said: “Maybe you need a new hobby.”

So naturally, I picked one I’m not good at: sourdough.

Meet Fernandough, my starter. He’s a bubbly little science experiment that lives in a jar in my fridge or on my counter, and somehow he’s thriving while I’m just trying to remember to shower. I’m not out here making bakery-perfect loaves—half the time it comes out looking like a deflated basketball. But that’s kind of the point.

Because sourdough, as it turns out, is a metaphor for life:

• The starter begins as nothing but flour and water. It only grows if you feed it. Same with me—I only rise when I give myself the basic care I need.
• If I ignore Fernandough, he sulks and goes flat. If I ignore myself, I crash. But when I show up consistently, even in small ways, both of us come back to life.
• Sourdough takes time. There’s no shortcut. Healing, rebuilding, and figuring out who I am again? Same thing. It’s slow. It’s frustrating. But it’s working.
• And yes, sometimes the loaves flop. They burn. They collapse. But even the ugliest bread still feeds you—just like my mistakes and setbacks still teach me something worth carrying forward.

So maybe my therapist was onto something. I needed a hobby, yes—but more than that, I needed a reminder that growth is messy, imperfect, and takes time. Life crashed, but I’m still here. Fernandough is still rising. And one day, I will too. Lol