The first loaf

My first sourdough loaf didn’t begin with confidence.It began with borrowing.

Starting a sourdough starter from scratch felt intimidating at the time — too much responsibility, too much uncertainty, too many unknowns. I didn’t yet trust myself to keep something alive that depended on consistency and care. So I did what many people quietly do:

I asked for help.

My sister-in-law shared a piece of her starter with me, and with it came permission to begin imperfectly.

This was during lockdown.

The world had slowed externally, but emotionally everything felt unbearably fast. I was facilitating grief processes, sitting with loss, and holding space for far more death than anyone should have to carry alone. As a pastor, there was no pause button. People still needed rituals, words, reassurance, presence. I gave what I could — and then went home with a body that didn’t know how to come back down again.

I didn’t have language then for nervous system regulation. I just knew I needed something repetitive, grounding, and alive. Something that didn’t require explanation or solutions. Something that would meet me quietly, without asking questions.

Sourdough arrived into that space almost unnoticed.

Feeding the starter gave my days structure when time felt shapeless. Mixing dough gave my hands something to do when words were too heavy to hold. The smell of fermentation, the feel of dough changing under my fingers, the simple act of waiting — for bulk fermentation, for proofing, for the oven to heat — forced me to slow down in a way nothing else could.

The process asked for presence, not productivity.

That first loaf was far from perfect. The crumb was uneven, the shape slightly awkward, the crust darker than I had planned. I remember turning it over in my hands, listening to the crackle of the crust as it cooled, unsure whether to feel proud or disappointed.

But it was real. It was warm. And it was something I had carried from beginning to end.

What I didn’t understand then — but see clearly now — is that sourdough isn’t just about bread. It’s about relationship. Relationship with time, with your senses, with your environment, and with your own capacity. The dough responds honestly. It doesn’t rush because you’re overwhelmed. It doesn’t perform because you want it to. It teaches attunement — something I desperately needed at the time.

Borrowing a starter wasn’t cheating. It was community.

Needing structure wasn’t weakness. It was wisdom.

And baking bread wasn’t avoidance — it was regulation.

That first loaf taught me that you don’t have to start from scratch to start meaningfully. Sometimes you begin by receiving. Sometimes the dough holds you while you learn how to hold everything else. Bread didn’t fix everything. But it helped me breathe again.

This blog exists because of that loaf. Because sourdough met me where I was — and stayed.