What My First Loaf Taught Me — And What I Wish I’d Known Sooner

My first sourdough loaf taught me far more than how to bake bread.

At the time, I thought I was learning a skill — how to mix, fold, wait, and bake. What I didn’t realise was that the dough was teaching me how to listen. How to slow down. How to notice instead of control.

And something else happened along the way. The more I baked, the more I wanted to bake.

At first, it was just another loaf. Then another. And then another. Before long, I realised we had a small problem on our hands — I was baking faster than my little family could eat. The freezer filled. Counter space disappeared. And still, I kept going.

So I started sharing.

During lockdown, sharing bread wasn’t casual. It meant masked faces, sanitised hands, stepping back from gates and front doors. It meant leaving warm loaves on neighbours’ steps and waving from a distance. Even the semi-flopped ones went out — misshapen, overproofed, imperfect — but made with care. And something unexpected happened. People loved them.

One neighbour, then another, gently suggested that maybe — just maybe — I could try selling the bread. I resisted the idea at first. That wasn’t the point. This was about process, not production. Regulation, not revenue.

But one thing led to another. What started as a few shared loaves slowly became a small side hustle. Orders trickled in. Then they multiplied. The response was far bigger than I had anticipated, and before I fully realised what was happening, I was baking fifteen or more loaves every Saturday.

In a tiny home oven.That could only fit two loaves at a time.

It was demanding and chaotic — constant timing, reshuffling schedules, watching fermentation like a hawk. And yet, I loved it. The repetition sharpened my awareness. The constraints forced me to understand dough properly, not just follow instructions. Every bake raised new questions. And I never stopped asking them. I researched constantly. I read. I watched. I attended talks. I tried to understand why dough behaved the way it did, not just how to make it behave. I wanted to know what fermentation was doing beneath the surface — to flavour, to structure, to the body.

That curiosity is what eventually led me to The Sourdough School in the UK.

At the time, studying there felt completely out of reach. The diplomas were expensive, and as a South African, the exchange rate between the Rand and the Pound made it feel almost impossible. Still, I followed closely. I attended every free webinar I could. I listened, took notes, and absorbed everything on offer.

The founder, Vanessa Kimbell, deeply inspired me. Through her work, a whole new world opened up — one where bread was no longer just bread.

It was Cultural. Biological. Political. Healing.

For the first time, I was introduced to the idea of Baking as Lifestyle Medicine.

I began to understand how long fermentation supports digestion. How traditional processes reduce the burden on the gut. How bread, when made with intention and integrity, can nourish rather than inflame. And how the act of baking itself — slow, rhythmic, sensory — can support mental and emotional wellbeing too.

After much thought (and a lot of hesitation), I reached out to Vanessa. I shared my story. I explained where I was, what I was learning, and why this work mattered to me. And then, somewhat boldly, I asked for a bursary for the Baking as Lifestyle Medicine certificate.

I truly didn’t expect anything to come of it. I assumed the answer would be no — but I also knew that the worst that could happen was exactly that.

And then something extraordinary happened. I was accepted into the programme.

That decision changed my life.

Suddenly, I was learning alongside people from all over the world — each with their own stories, struggles, and reasons for being there. We were challenged to move far beyond perfect, Instagrammable loaves. We explored how bread interacts with the body. How it can support healing — physically and mentally. How food systems shape health outcomes. And how questioning the status quo matters.

Vanessa is a fierce advocate for change. She challenges the large systems that produce flimsy, sugar-filled bread made from heavily processed flour — bread that fills shelves but leaves bodies undernourished. Through her teaching, I learned that baking can be an act of resistance, care, and responsibility.

Looking back now, there are a few principles I wish I’d understood from the beginning. Not because my bread would have been better — but because the process would have been kinder.

1. Sourdough is a relationship, not a recipe

In the beginning, I followed instructions rigidly. When something went wrong, I assumed I had failed. What I know now is that sourdough responds to context. Flour, weather, hydration, environment, hands — all of it matters.

A recipe is a guide, not a guarantee.

Learning to work with the dough, instead of trying to control it, changed everything.

2. Time is an ingredient — and it can’t be rushed

Fermentation doesn’t care about your schedule.

Long, slow fermentation allows flavour to develop, structure to strengthen, and nutrients to become more available. Trying to rush this process doesn’t just affect the bread — it affects how the body receives it.

Time is doing real work here. Respecting it matters.

3. A starter doesn’t need perfection — it needs consistency

I worried endlessly about my starter. Was it active enough? Too acidic? Too weak?

What I wish I’d known sooner is that starters are resilient. They thrive on regular, steady care — not constant interference. Consistency builds strength, both in fermentation and in practice.

4. Bread can support the gut — when it’s made with intention

One of the biggest shifts in my understanding came when I learned that bread doesn’t have to be something the gut merely tolerates.

Long-fermented sourdough breaks down complex carbohydrates, reduces phytic acid, and supports better mineral absorption. The fermentation process does some of the digestive work before the bread is eaten, making it gentler on the system.

For many people, the issue isn’t bread itself — it’s how the bread is made.

Real bread, made slowly with well-fermented dough and thoughtfully milled flour, can support digestion rather than overwhelm it. This was a turning point for me — both personally and professionally.

5. The loaf doesn’t need to be perfect to be meaningful

Some of the loaves I shared were deeply imperfect. And yet, they nourished, connected, and comforted. I wish I’d known sooner that success in sourdough isn’t measured by open crumb or symmetrical ears. It’s measured by what the process gives you — nourishment, regulation, connection, and trust.

If you’re at the beginning of your sourdough journey, know this: you don’t need perfection, special equipment, or confidence to start. You just need curiosity, time, and a willingness to learn. The rest comes, one loaf at a time.

Jx!