“If you’re feeling low, a little bit of baking helps.” — Mary Berry

I did not believe this for most of my life.

For years, I had decided baking was not for me. Cooking itself felt transactional, a life skill required for survival. As a student and young professional, I optimized for efficiency: takeaway meals, quick dishes, minimal effort.

Then life began shifting under my feet.

Health issues in my early thirties pushed me toward proper cooking. Then we had a child, and suddenly life was messy and magnificent all at once. Takeout stopped being practical: financially, nutritionally, emotionally. Our toddler needed food that was colourful, nourishing, engaging. (Spoiler: it is still 95% noodles.)

And still, I avoided baking.

I would joke that the grandmother handled cakes and sweets. Why should I bake? It felt optional and unnecessary, Decorative even.

Until one autumn afternoon, I found myself craving pumpkin bread while reading about it. We had homegrown pumpkin. There is only so much soup one can make.

So, I did something small and radical.

I bought whole wheat flour. I bought yeast.
And I tried.

The first loaf was surprisingly good.

But something else happened.

The Discipline of Dough

Anyone who has baked bread knows this: you cannot rush it.

The yeast must activate.
The dough must be kneaded.
The texture must feel right beneath your hands.
The rise cannot be forced.

I tried to hurry it once. The result was dense and inedible.

Dough does not respond to impatience. It responds to timing. To temperature. To rest.

And during one of the most unstable seasons of my life, that lesson landed deeply.

When Life Refuses to Rise on Your Timeline

2024 and 2025 were not gentle years to me.

The automotive industry, where I have built my career, has been undergoing massive transformation. Market instability. Financial strain. Geopolitical unrest. Corporate restructuring. The ground beneath long-term plans felt uncertain.

At the same time, I was navigating motherhood and ambition.

Since becoming a mother, I have been trying to find my place in a modern corporate system that praises performance but rarely accommodates complexity. I had goals — milestones I believed I would reach by a certain age.

They remained just beyond reach.

I pursued certification. I strengthened my skills. I worked harder.

The results did not materialize.

Then came the physical blows.

A gallbladder surgery in December 2024.

A miscarriage in March 2025, exactly one year ago. A pregnancy that had mirrored my first: smooth, hopeful, predictable. Until it wasn’t.

Then, shortly after recovery, another miscarriage.

There are pains that fracture you visibly. And there are silent fractures, mental, physiological, spiritual, that no one sees but you carry everywhere.

I sought help. From family. From friends. From doctors.
I leaned into journaling. Gardening. Study.
I even learned to ride a bicycle, teaching myself balance in the most literal way.

I tried to stay upright while nothing seemed to move forward.

Not my career.
Not the family expansion I had hoped for.
Not my carefully structured timelines.

Life refused to rise on my schedule.

Healing Through Baking

And in that liminal space , between grief and reinvention, I found baking therapy.

Or perhaps it found me.

You must let dough rise.
And sometimes, you must let it rise twice.

Even in winter, the yeast is working. Slowly. Invisibly. Faithfully.

That became my metaphor.

Even when nothing appears to be happening, growth is underway.

I began in October with simple pumpkin bread. By December, I was experimenting boldly: focaccia, spiral breads coloured with beetroot and blueberries, edible flower loaves, paneer-stuffed focaccia sandwiches.

I moved from basic whole wheat bread to naan, a different technique, a new challenge. The first attempts were imperfect. Now I make naan regularly and look forward to grilling it outdoors when warmer days arrive.

Baking demanded precision.
It required planning.
It rewarded patience.

You cannot make naan if you start the dough too late.
You cannot skip resting time and expect structure.
You cannot demand outcome without honouring process.

Baking and mental health are more connected than I ever imagined. Therapeutic baking became my structured rebellion against chaos. It gave me something to nurture when other parts of my life felt uncontrollable.

Rediscovering Competence

There is something else baking gave me.

Proof.

I have always known that when I focus deeply on a skill, I excel. But during seasons of loss, even your own competence can feel distant.

Baking brought it back.

Within months, I had moved from hesitant beginner to confident experimenter. I explored textures, fermentation times, hydration ratios. I fell into the science of baking, and from there into deeper curiosity about food itself — including specialty Indian breads.

For my fortieth birthday, I created an entire spread from scratch: red beet roulade, blueberry bread, edible flower bread, focaccia sandwiches with paneer stuffing.

Each loaf felt symbolic.

Proof that I am still capable.
Proof that I can create beauty from raw ingredients.
Proof that even after profound loss, I can build.

Baking Therapy and Personal Growth

Baking did not erase grief.
It did not fix corporate instability.
It did not rewrite the past two years.

But baking therapy gave me structure inside chaos.

It became my quiet practice of healing through baking — a discipline that reminded me growth cannot be rushed. That timing matters. That rest is part of the process.

Through baking, I rediscovered personal growth in its most tangible form: flour, water, yeast, and patience.

Life may not rise on my timeline.

But like dough, I am still rising.

And now, I trust the process.

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