The Afterglow of Loss: Finding Comfort in Sourdough Baking
Finding Comfort in Sourdough: A Journey Through Loss, Patience, and Baking
Grief has a way of reshaping time. In 2023, when I lost my mother, the days became blurred edges, folding into one another in a way that made everything feel distant—except the ache of her absence. In the stillness that followed, I found myself drawn to the quietest corner of my kitchen, reaching for something tangible, something that required patience but expected nothing from me in return.
I decided to make a sourdough starter.
I don’t know exactly why. It just felt like the thing to do.
Getting Lost In The Quiet
Most days, I found myself tucked into that small corner of my kitchen, teary-eyed, just feeding my starter. It became a ritual—me, a jar of flour and water, and the quiet anticipation that maybe tomorrow would feel lighter than today.
I didn’t have to speak. I didn’t have to explain myself. I was just there, tending to something simple yet alive. It felt like therapy, like an unspoken promise that time, patience, and care could transform even the most stagnant things into something new.
Much like grief.
You don’t wake up one day and feel better. But you keep showing up. You tend to what needs tending, even when you can’t see the change happening. And one day, almost without realizing it, you look back and see how far you’ve come.
A Messy, Moldy Beginning
In the beginning, I knew nothing about sourdough. I didn’t understand hydration ratios or fermentation times. I had no idea how to properly fold or shape a loaf.
And I definitely didn’t understand baker’s math.
I’ve never had a mathematical mind. Numbers and formulas have never made much sense to me. So when I read about “percentages” in bread-making, I was completely lost. Hydration levels? Ratios? I didn’t even know what “dough structure” was supposed to mean.
And honestly, I didn’t even know how to properly measure in grams.
I grew up using cups and teaspoons, eyeing ingredients, and going by feel. Suddenly, I was reading recipes that said things like “100g of starter, 500g of flour, 375g of water”—and I had no idea what that actually looked like. How much was 100 grams of starter? Was that a spoonful? A cup? A blob?
I bought a kitchen scale, but even then, I wasn’t sure I was doing it right. Sometimes I’d add water, then flour, then more water, adjusting endlessly until the starter looked right—whatever that meant.
The first few starters were disasters. Some grew mold, others turned a strange shade of gray, and many just stunk. Like really, truly, rancidly stunk. But for some reason, none of that bothered me.
I lost myself in trying again and again.
Patience is supposed to be a virtue, but it’s never been one of mine. I don’t grasp it easily. And yet, with sourdough, I somehow let go of the need for instant success. I didn’t mind the failures. I just kept going. Maybe that’s why it became a comfort—because in those moments, I wasn’t thinking about loss, or grief, or what came next. I was just there, in the quiet, feeding a jar of flour and water, waiting for something to come to life.
The Year of Imperfect Loaves
Throughout 2024, I baked. And I failed—a lot. My first loaves were dense and heavy, collapsing under their own weight. Some never developed that signature sourdough tang. Others turned out flat, overproofed, underproofed, or stuck stubbornly to their banneton.
But I kept going.
Somewhere between the sticky dough and the endless adjustments, I started to understand that sourdough isn’t just about making bread—it’s about surrendering to the process. You can’t force it to be perfect. You can’t rush the fermentation. The dough will rise in its own time, shaped by the care you put into it.
Grief is the same way. There’s no quick fix, no perfect way to move forward. Healing happens in the slow moments, in the quiet tending, in the space between what was and what is becoming.
The Afterglow of Baking
A year later, I finally pulled a loaf from the oven that felt like home. Golden crust, airy crumb, deep flavor—the kind of bread you want to tear apart with your hands and share with someone you love.
I thought about my mother. About how she loved the simple pleasures of life—good food, good company, the warmth of a home filled with laughter and mostly “her kids coming home.”
I realized that sourdough had given me more than just a loaf of bread. It had given me connection—to myself, to the present moment, and to the unspoken love that lingers long after someone is gone.
This is what Sourdough Afterglow is about. It’s not just a place for recipes or techniques. It’s a space for the stories we knead into our bread, the memories we carry in every fold, and the quiet ways we find comfort in a warm loaf shared with others.
Why Sourdough Afterglow?
Grief doesn’t disappear—it changes shape. Like sourdough, it evolves with time, patience, and care. There’s a moment after a loaf is pulled from the oven—a stillness, a warmth, a quiet satisfaction that feels like home. That’s the afterglow.
It’s the feeling of knowing something has transformed. That all the waiting, the tending, the failed attempts have led to something worth savoring.
That’s what this space—Sourdough Afterglow—is about. Not just baking, but the moments in between. The slow, intentional process of creating something that nourishes, comforts, and connects.
If you’ve ever found yourself lost in grief, transition, or uncertainty, maybe you, too, will find something in the quiet act of feeding a starter, shaping a loaf, and sharing bread with someone you love.
And if you don’t know where to start, I’d love to help.
🌾 Start with my simple sourdough starter guide [link]
Join Me In The Afterglow
Whether you’re new to sourdough or have been baking for years, I invite you to be part of this journey. Sign up for my newsletter for recipes, stories, and reflections on life, baking, and the small moments that make all the difference or follow on Instagram @sourdoughafterglow.
And if you’re holding onto a little extra flour and curiosity, maybe today is the day to start your own starter. Who knows where it might take you?
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