If there’s one thing I want every person to understand about sourdough, it’s this:

You are not just baking bread—you are remembering who you are.

The process of making sourdough—slowing down, feeding the starter, watching it bubble to life, kneading and folding by hand—is a return to our most instinctive ways of being. Before we industrialised bread. Before we lost our patience. Before everything became fast, shelf-stable, and soulless.

The Process Is the Healing
Every stage—feeding the starter, watching it bubble, mixing with your hands, folding, shaping—is a chance to tune into your senses. The dough becomes a teacher of rhythm. It shows you how growth requires both tension and rest. You begin to understand that just like life, dough can’t be forced. It needs time, space, and a supportive environment.

It invites you to:

• Be patient, because fermentation cannot be rushed.

• Be gentle, because the dough responds to energy.

• Trust the process, because transformation happens in stillness.

Through baking, you begin to adopt these qualities in your daily life. You realise you don’t have to fix everything in an instant. You can slow down. You can move with purpose.

Sourdough teaches you to let go. You can’t control temperature, fermentation times, or oven spring with perfection. But you can show up. You can nurture. You can bake with care.

And that is what I teach in my workshops. Not just how to stretch dough or time fermentation—but how to build presence into your process. Because the best bread isn’t just well-baked—it’s well-lived.

Sourdough has never just been about feeding others. It’s been about feeding you.