February marks one year since I made my first loaf of sourdough bread. That loaf cost me about $400 in money, time, accessories, and anxiety. And it turns out, it was worth every penny.

In this episode of The Self-Made Happyaire, I share what sourdough taught me about slowing down, inherited beliefs about productivity, resilience, and my evolving relationship with the frequency of happiness. I talk about my mother’s voice in my head, the anxiety of measuring grams when I “measure with my heart,” and how something that once felt fragile and overwhelming became rhythmic, forgiving, and deeply nourishing.

Happiness, like sourdough, isn’t something you grab off a shelf pre-sliced. It’s something you tend, feed, and trust to rise in its own time.

The only thing I didn't buy was a bread slicer. I'll get back to that in a moment. This morning, right before I recorded this podcast, I had a slice of sourdough bread with my breakfast, which was made by the way, primarily of eggs resourced from my own hens, and I thought about my mother. My mother embraced every trendy housewife hack.

I spent a lot of hours watching videos on YouTube that made the process of bread making seem incredibly overwhelming. Even though in the title they said it would be the simplest sourdough bread making video ever made. There were things in my deeply non detailed, non-math brain that rebelled against measuring grams of flour and water, controlling the temperature of the room, of the bowl, of the dough, precise timing and measurements of rise and fermentation.

thank you very much brain cells, and followed all the directions. It was a lot for bread. And my mother's voice was in the back of my head the whole time. This is why everyone says the greatest invention since sliced bread. This is the kind of thing you can just buy at the grocery store. You could be doing something so much better with your time.

Are you really trading all your choice in to do housewife shit? And in that moment, I would have agreed with her. I had spent over two weeks birthing that loaf of bread into the world. I had agonized, analyzed, measured, prayed, and sweated this simple mixture of flour and water into the most basic of household staples.

This creature, or more precisely creatures in the form of yeast needs tending. My first loaf turned out beautiful. It was delicious. Pandoughra, which is what we named our starter, became a contributing and beloved family member who earned her own personal shelf in our kitchen.

That shelf, by the way, replaced our microwave, which had died at a moment when I was too broke to replace it. Nick and I got used to, and came to prefer using the oven and stove and air fryer to reheat our leftovers. So we simply used it for storage until we removed it and rededicated that space to Pandoughra.

And they are delicious. I've also learned a thousand uses for discarded starter. And I've learned that this process is so much more forgiving than I was led to believe. Pandoughra has learned to adapt to our way of doing things. The temperature of our house, the way I do my stretch and folds, our sometimes erratic feeding schedule and the utensils I use to help her magically turn flour and water into bread.

In the beginning, I thought she was so fragile. I actually worried over her way more than I needed to. Now I know she is resilient and adaptable. She's nowhere near the diva I thought she was. She's a doer and she holds her end of our bargain beautifully. I feed her.

and takes up a good two feet of counter space. That said, we now have perfectly sliced bread and slightly less of a likelihood of needing stitches. Although, to be honest, that saw blade looks sharp, and I'm still concerned.

Speaking of sliced bread, I sat with my mother's energy the other day. She's been gone from the planet about 21 years as of right now. But we still visit from time to time. I talked with her about how much of our world has turned into instant gratification and chosen that over long-term happiness. I see all around me, people who repeat my process with sourdough in a myriad of metaphorical ways, all stemming from the self-imposed anxiety of

The difference. Between our two lives separated by only a few decades. I love our fast-paced world, and I love the slowness of making sourdough bread. I love the fact that it takes three full days to go from, I need bread to a baked loaf, cooling on the counter. I love that it is a process for both me and Pandoughra.

She bakes while I'm harrowing the pasture. It's a good deal we have going and it reminds me of how I'm building a better relationship with the frequency of happy these days. Like my deal with Pandoughra happiness and I dance here and there and then part and go about our business before checking in again for another soiree.

It's a good deal we have going. No matter what you've been up to today, I hope you take a moment to check in with happiness. Give her a moment and maybe a snack , and I bet you she'll give you a moment and feed you right back.