A fresh jar of sourdough starter beginning to rise, full of bubbles and fermentation activity.

Sourdough Healing Journey

💫 When Creativity Needed a Reset

How letting go of old habits—and picking up sourdough—led me back to myself.

🌲 A New Life, A New Rhythm

I didn’t grow up drinking. I didn’t even start until I was 40. But the years that followed—moving from Billings, Montana to California, navigating new rhythms, loss, and an endless creative rush—led me somewhere unexpected: a quiet sourdough healing journey.

I loved the thrill of constant creation—pouring myself into projects, staying up late, designing, conceptualizing, shaping ideas. For a while, that was enough. Until one day, I realized I’d blurred the line between who I was and what I brought to life.

At first, a drink now and then felt harmless—a way to soften edges and settle into this new life I was building. It felt social, casual, even earned after long days designing websites and helping others find their voice online. It was electric—every project a jolt of creative voltage.

But somewhere in that swirl of creativity, I lost touch with my own voice.

⚡️ When Everything Cracked Open

Life has a way of forcing pause. For me, it came in 2017, when a boating accident shattered the right side of my face—and with it, everything I thought I was building. The impact broke more than bone; it broke my certainty, my plans, my sense of femininity, and my sense of being.

After a talented ENT specialist gently put me back together, there were long days spent swollen and resting, wondering if I’d ever feel or look like myself again.

My corporate job restructured, and knowing I had months before I’d feel comfortable going out in public, I knew I had to keep my creative love alive—so I taught myself how to build websites the old-school way: raw Photoshop files, layers, slicing, all assembled in Dreamweaver. It fed my creativity—giving my hands and my mind something steady to hold when everything else felt uncertain.

Through that healing, I needed to feel useful, connected, and still my creative self—somehow.

As my face and career were finding new forms, I hadn’t yet realized my heart was too.

🍷 Creativity, Escapism & Stella

As months and years slipped by, the work just came. I never really pursued it — I’d finish a project, and it was as if the universe would hand me the next one. It felt magical: clients, projects, late-night design marathons. I’d smile and take it all in, grateful to feel needed, creative, and alive.

What started as a lighthearted ritual—late nights, design marathons, day drinks with clients—slowly became a quiet crutch. I wasn’t partying. I wasn’t escaping in the obvious ways. I was creating—pouring beauty into others’ visions, staying in motion.

Behind the scenes, Stella felt like control: a soft blur, ideas flowing faster, the noise quieting just enough for the creativity to rush in. It wasn’t wild. It was comforting. Familiar. Easy.

And yet… deep down, I knew something was missing.

🖤 Losing My Mom, Finding the Silence

When my mom passed away in 2023, her absence carved a quiet ache into every corner of my being. She had always been my loudest cheerleader, the one who believed in every version of me. Without her, my world felt unanchored.

Clients still needed my work, but the creativity that once came so naturally suddenly felt impossible to summon. Even reaching for Stella — my companion for creative sparks — didn’t feel right anymore; the comfort it once gave me felt empty, unfamiliar. It was as if my creativity had vanished with her.

So I retreated to the quietest corner of my kitchen — just to stand there and feel it all. I didn’t plan anything. I just needed the quiet to hold me. No deadlines. No proving. Just a moment of calm in the middle of loss.

🍞 The Starter That Started Everything

That’s when I reached for the simplest thing I could find: flour and water. I had no plan. No idea what I was doing. I just knew I wanted to create something that didn’t require words — something that asked me to slow down, to be present, to feel my feelings, and still create something from them.

That messy little jar on the counter became the most honest thing in my life. It didn’t need a filter or a pitch deck. It just needed me to show up. Feed it. Pay attention. Care for it. And that became my healing: presence without performance.

Each feeding brought me closer to the version of myself I’d lost along the way.

Little by little, that jar of flour and water became more than just a starter — it was a quiet promise that I could still show up for something that depended on me, and asked for nothing in return. It became a space to hold my feelings without words.

Most days, it was just me and that jar, learning how to make sourdough, moving at a pace that didn’t ask for perfection — only presence. Some days it worked; some days it didn’t. Those flat wheat loaves on my counter? I have no doubt my mom would have told me they were the best loaves ever — perfect, just because I made them. And honestly, I didn’t care if they were flat. I was just more determined to try again. I can still hear her voice cheering me on. And somewhere in all that quiet imperfection, my heart started to rise again too.

🎄 The Christmas That Changed Me

The truth is, the quiet ache of losing my mom opened my eyes to the gentle escape I’d found in Stella — an escape I’d turned to for far longer than I ever wanted to admit.

That same year at Christmas, my best friend—someone who had walked beside every version of me—gently, bravely, named what I hadn’t dared to say out loud. Not with shame, but with unwavering love and clarity.

My breath stopped. I fought back ugly tears. Part of me wanted to run—like I always did when things got too hard—but she didn’t let me. I tried to justify my actions, to explain them away like I always had, but she wanted nothing to do with that. She called me out for that too, totally knowing I was seen. Feeling that raw, I wanted so badly to escape. But I didn’t. I stayed.
This moment cracked something open in me — the same tender grief and quiet comfort I share here.

And for the first time, I didn’t deflect. I didn’t retreat. I listened.

In that moment, I realized I’d been clinging to rituals that no longer served me. Habits that once felt like comfort had quietly turned into cages. Her honesty cracked something open in me—not in some dramatic, cinematic way, but in the quiet, steady way real change often begins.

The grief was still there—woven through my days like background music—but something deeper was shifting. I no longer felt like I needed Stella to summon my creative power. I wanted to honor my creativity honestly, on its own—without numbing, without shortcuts.

For the first time, I trusted my ideas would come without drifting away to find them.

I had leaned on Stella for years—softly, casually—a shortcut to flow, a buffer for my edges. But in this season, I was ready to let her go. Not because I no longer craved ease, but because I finally believed I could create without losing myself.

🕊️ I realized my creativity wasn’t something Stella gave me. It had always been mine.

She wasn’t my villain. She was a crutch I had outgrown.

Letting her go felt possible because someone I trusted & loved cared enough to say the hard thing—exactly when I needed to hear it.

✨ Maybe it was my mom nudging my best friend from somewhere soft and unseen, trusting that she, of all people, would sense it — knowing my heart was finally ready to hear the truth. I like to think so. Either way, I was ready to receive it. ✨

It wasn’t a breaking point. It was a turning point. An awakening to the woman I was becoming—clearer, steadier, and finally at home in her own presence and instincts.

I gave myself permission to slow down. To rest in who I already was. To lead with the creativity I’d always carried—but so rarely claimed.

🕊️ And to think — all it took was the hush of my kitchen, the weight of my grief, a best friend’s truth, and a jar of flour and water to bring me back to myself.

🔥 Showing Up—Fully, Finally

Finding my way back to myself changed everything—especially how I hold my creativity now. I don’t chase it anymore. I nurture it—slowly, honestly, with both feet planted firmly on the ground.

That’s how Sourdough Afterglow was born—not as a brand or a business, but as a quiet remembering. A return to stillness. A celebration of the beauty that follows the breaking.

These days, when I create, it comes from a place of rooted joy—not escape. I bake with my hands and write with my heart. I don’t vanish into the process anymore—I stay.

That’s what sourdough taught me: presence is its own kind of art.

Healing is deeply personal, and each of us finds solace in our own way—whether through the steady rhythm of kneading dough, the quiet expression of art, or simply sitting still. Honor what brings you peace. Trust your timing. And remember: your journey is real, seen, and worthy.

And so here I am—still in my kitchen, still learning, still loving the quiet. I don’t always get it right, but I stay. For the bread. For the words. For my family. For myself. Finally.

✨ The Afterglow

So if you’re in a season of grief, growth, or simply longing for a moment of stillness—start here. With your hands. With your heart. With something wild and alive in a jar.

👉 This is the bread that brought me back to myself. Maybe it can meet you there, too.

And if you ever need a little encouragement—or a reminder that you’re not alone in your becoming—I’m just a loaf away.