Let’s be honest… life’s a mess.
(Or maybe that’s just me? )
Flour-covered counters, crusty mason jars, and the faint aroma of what might be fermentation but could also be failure. That’s where my sourdough journey began.
I started like we all do—with good intentions and an internet full of “experts.” I followed every recipe, every ratio, every sage TikTok wisdom from someone who probably lives on a mountain and mills their own ancient grains by candlelight.
And yet… my starter was deader than my social battery after a family reunion.
For weeks, I tried to perfect it.
I used filtered water like it was holy.
I weighed flour like I was in a baking episode of Survivor.
I stared into the jar like it was going to tell me my life’s purpose.
But still—nothing. Nada. Just a sad little science experiment sulking on my counter.
Then came the mold.
Not just any mold. Black. Furry. Mold.
Like my sourdough was auditioning for a Halloween special.
I didn’t know whether to throw it out or brush it and give it a name.
(We’re talking Pet Cemetery vibes.)
And then, in a fit of gluten-fueled rebellion, I tossed it all.
You did read fit above…right? Because that was literal and figurative. I had wasted so much flour in 2 months time—not to mention during government shutdown, and my husbands lack of pay. Mother Mary and sweet baby Jesus was my heart sacked with remorse and discouragement.
So, I chucked it, and danced to my own tune. Not just the starter. The rules. The rigid “you must do it this way” directions. I gave them a loving (but firm) farewell and went rogue. I eyeballed measurements. I stirred with my favorite 20 year old wooden spoon I found in the back of the drawer—behind all of the ne4w3 fancy gadgets everyone insisted I needed for this adventure. I even left the lid (gasp) slightly ajar. Total starter anarchy.
And wouldn’t you know it?
The next day… it came alive.
Bubbling. Breathing. Smelling like a living being with opinions. I had birthed a sourdough miracle—and all because I finally stopped trying to do it perfectly.
Cue the spiritual life lesson (because OF COURSE there’s one):
Isn’t that life, though?
We try so dang hard to fit in, to please, to get it all right.
We follow all the advice—sometimes from people we don’t even know—and lets be fully transparent—might not even be fond of.
We live in houses that look like the neighbor’s, wear clothes someone else picked out, and drive cars with zero personality just to fit the mold.
And then we wonder why we feel stuck. Or flat. Or like a very fancy brick of unbaked dough.
But here’s the kicker: sometimes your breakthrough doesn’t come from perfection—it comes from permission. Mine usually surface after learning from mistakes (insert cheese grin)… but that’s okay too.
Give yourself permission to mess it up. Allow wisdoms and insights gained of mistakes. Go ahead and wing it. Veer off course.
Pause. Take a deep cleansing breath and say, “Thanks, but I’m gonna stir this one with my soul instead.”
Look—I’m not saying throw caution (or kombucha) to the wind.
But I am saying: trust yourself.
You’re wiser than you think.
You’re more creative than you give yourself credit for.
And honestly? You’ve survived way worse than a deflated loaf of bread.
Who knows what’s right for you better than you, if you just pause, get quiet for a little bit, and listen to your internal instincts?
Trust that. Step into that. Live from that. Go full warrior and bake from that. Lol.
And let’s be clear: I’m still a hot mess (just ask my husband, ha!)
Three dogs barking in the background, our skunk, Reek, nipping at my toes for a treat. Laundry building. I’ve got a gluten-free starter that looks like it’s developed one heck of a side-eye and plotting something. I will even add that I once mistook sugar for salt. Horrible Lemon Meringue Pie. PUTRID…lol. Yet, here I am attempting sourdough starter like a rebel, refusing to purchase it from another.
But I’m me. And I’m learning to love the version of me that doesn’t follow every rule, but follows her own rhythm—
a rhythm that may or may not resemble a Benny Hill chase scene after three glasses of hooch and a 2 a.m. bar shutdown.
It’s not elegant. It’s not polished. But somehow… it works. And honestly? That’s the whole point.
So whether it’s a recipe in your kitchen or a recipe in your life, don’t be afraid to:
- Stir with your heart.
- Add a little sass.
- Go full rebel baker if you must.
You might just end up with something better than you ever expected.
Alive. Bold. Slightly weird. And exactly right.
In conclusion, my dear reader:
Let your starter rise… but also, let you rise.
Let your life —and joy—bubble up on its own terms.
And for the love of sourdough, stop taking advice from people who don’t know your soul—or your pantry.
P.S.
If your starter ever grows black fur and looks like it’s halfway to forming its own personality—don’t panic. You’re not a failure, you’re just hosting a science experiment. Toss it, laugh it off, and start again. Or, just name that sucker and go with that. You are now the proud owner of a sourdough furby pet.
Let’s Chat:
Have you ever said “screw the rules” and ended up creating something magical?
Drop it in the comments—I need to know I’m not the only renegade out here.
“Perfection is the enemy of progress.”
— Winston Churchill (often attributed)
“Do not go where the path may lead, go instead where there is no path and leave a trail.”
— Ralph Waldo Emerson
So, the next time life feels like it’s not going according to plan—pause. Breathe.
Stir from your soul. Move from your spirit.
The most beautiful things often begin the moment we stop trying to get it perfect… and start simply being ourselves.
With Hugs, Grace, and a wink to your wild,
—Tina N. Campbell | Scribed in Light
Scribed In Light 
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